


Change Your Lonely Ways

by thisonegoes



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Depression, Developing Relationship, M/M, Neighbors, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:32:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 54,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisonegoes/pseuds/thisonegoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they see each other, Harry is carrying a heavy box up the flight of stairs to his new apartment. It doesn't happen with a crash. He doesn't feel a chill go down his spine, he doesn't drop the box like in some romantic comedy. In fact, they barely make eye contact. </p><p>Neighbor AU where Harry is a writer, Zayn is an actor, and they both need a little help sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Harry's always been the opposite of what people expect. Where they see his strengths and anticipate greatness, Harry knows nothing but his faults, of living in averages. Sure he's outgoing, funny, charming. But he's also depressing, mopey, self deprecating. His father would call that being "both sides of the coin." Harry could change the world with just a smile and a flick of his curls, he knows he could, and so does everyone else. But Harry also knows that after the smile and after he runs his fingers through his hair, once the world has changed, all he would want to do is go home and curl up in his bed with a book. It wouldn't be fair to do great and then do nothing with the follow through.

So why bother?

Harry's mother has always been baffled by his "opposite" nature, doing and being the exact opposite of every expectation she's ever had for him. She knew how loving he was, knew his charm, so she couldn't understand why he never had a girlfriend. Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that his charm only took him as far as a bedroom, never past that. Harry's not the one people want relationships with. And in any case, he wasn't exactly dreaming of breasts and soft skin. (He touched a breast once, in ninth grade, and it reminded him of raw chicken.)

Anne also thought that Harry would be the child to stay close to home, stay close to her. She assumed Gemma would go off, see the world, explore. Harry was sweet and could hold his own when he needed to, naturally, but he needed people more than Gemma. He needed the comforts of home, a routine he's used to. So of course Harry was exactly the opposite, kicking dust up as he flew around the house, clutching various maps in his hands, rambling about routes and mile markers, diners and the pancakes he'd eat on his journey. He left home the day after he graduated college, with his car packed and his iPod full of music for the drive to California.

Harry never thought he'd be able to do it, if he was being honest, but he was tired of knowing his potential and never actually grasping it. So he left. He kissed his mother on the cheek, softly pushed Gemma away from his car, and left.

So there Harry was, living in Los Angeles, pushing himself to be great. He made friends quickly, worked his way up at a marginally popular entertainment website as a writer, and settled in. It wasn't glamorous, no matter how much he tried to convince his family back home. He wasn't at fancy parties, meeting famous people, or doing coke in bathrooms. When he wasn't writing for the website, he was drinking coffee and reading. Perhaps he wasn't using the entirety of his potential, to write the book he knew he wanted to eventually write, but at least he wasn't still sitting in his childhood bedroom, wondering.

Harry lived in opposites. He could move to California to be a writer and start his novel, but he hardly ventured out of the apartment he rented with a coworker to actually gain life experience. He could leave his family without so much as a second glance, and then cry when he was sick and his mom wasn't there to coddle him. He wanted to skydive one day, but he feared too much spice in his food. He wanted to be alone, but he wanted everyone to love him.

Most days it feels like a long time since someone had.

 

***

 

The first time they see each other, Harry is carrying a heavy box up the flight of stairs to his new apartment. He had finally decided, after three years of living in LA, that it was time to have his own place. He had lived with Niall for a while, and Niall was great, but he also left towels on the bathroom floor and drank too much. So Harry found a small studio apartment only a few blocks from work, just big enough to fit his bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a chair, with a small attached kitchen and an even smaller bathroom.

He was going to paint one of the walls blue. His door had outdoor access, overlooking a small courtyard with an orange tree and a fountain. He couldn't wait to be on his own, walking around that courtyard with a cup of coffee, tilting his face towards the sun while he snatched oranges, not caring about a thing. It would be perfect.

It didn't happen with a crash. He didn't feel a chill go down his spine, he didn't drop the box like in some romantic comedy. In fact, they barely make eye contact. But as Harry trudged up the stairs towards his new door with the brass 10, he glanced down and saw him. The man was coming out of the apartment below his and one door over, with his back turned to him, locking his door. He had straight black hair, stood up on all ends, slightly hunched shoulders, and black boots. Those were the defining characteristics Harry noticed first, and that probably should've been a clue. Harry slowed down slightly, to try and catch what the guy's face looked like.

When Number 3 turned, Harry only allowed himself a quick glance, lest he become the creepy guy in Number 10 on his first goddamn day in the building. They see each other, for only a second, as Number 3 gives a noncommittal wave and walks towards the front gate. The guy is unnervingly attractive, the kind of attractive that makes you want to smooth your hair, fix your shirt, check your breath, just by being near him. He also looked familiar, but Harry can't quite place it.

But it was in that moment that Harry knew he was fucked. Because from then on, no matter what, he would never be able to haphazardly walk around the courtyard with coffee and an orange, without a care in the world. From then on, he would always be aware that Number 3 could glance out his window and see the courtyard and see Harry if he strolled by to get his mail. Harry knew, without a doubt, that he would never walk outside his door without wondering if Number 3 could see him. Because maybe he wanted Number 3 to see him.

He was fucked.

***

 

"So what does he look like?" Niall asked. "Describe him to me. Maybe I'll know what he's from."

"I don't know what he looks like, he just looks like an attractive man," Harry said as he sat at his desk the next day, fiddling around with his speakers, trying to hook them up correctly to his laptop.

Niall, sitting in Harry's chair, eating Harry's yogurt, wasn't to be swayed.

Niall's good like that.

"Harry, you're supposed to be a writer, remember? You're supposed to be able to describe shit in excruciatingly precise detail. Set the scene! Tell me what you saw and I'll try and tell you if he's famous or not."

"God, okay. Okay." Harry turns towards Niall, thinking hard. "He was probably a little shorter than me. But not by much. He had dark olive skin, dark eyes, black hair. He was fit, not too bulky. But not skinny either. He was wearing these really massive black boots. They must be heavy. He was wearing a black jean jacket. And he had an earring."

Niall stares at him intently.

"What?"

"Harry, you told me you saw him for literally ten seconds. Shit, he must be hot if you remembered all that," Niall chuckles to himself.

"Yeah well, he is hot. But it's still bothering me that I vaguely know his face, but don't know what from."

"We'll stew on it, figure it out. In fact, walk me outside, maybe he's home and we'll bump into him!" Niall jumps up, grabbing his jacket.

They walk down the stairs into the courtyard. Harry tries to be cool, by not blatantly looking over at the door with the brass 3, but Niall of course stares at it the entire way to the front gate. But the curtains are drawn, no lights to be seen, door closed. Number 3 isn't home and Harry tries not to feel bummed about it.

He waves to Niall as Niall shrugs his shoulders, mouths "better luck next time!" and flits out the gate. It's not until Harry is walking back to the stairs and halfway up them just like he was yesterday when it occurs to him: he is Harry fucking Styles. He might hate himself some days, and lose confidence when his thoughts get too heavy, but he is still Harry. He once smiled at a guy in a bar back home, a small smile he wasn't even trying to use for anything, and he _still_ got a blowjob in the bathroom. He could do this. Next time he sees Number 3, he's going to smile that smile and get to work. Harry might feel like a total mess, but he can do this.

 

***

 

Harry doesn't find his chance until weeks later. Sure, he could take that initial moxie he found within himself on the stairs and go knock on the guy's door, ask for a cup of sugar, smile at him through the screen. But Harry is nothing if not consistent, and his life of living in opposites suits him well. He let the moxie sit dormant, while he instead let the opportunity present itself naturally.

One of the perks of working for a "hip website" is the free stuff "hip brands" send them for possible promotion. To date, Harry has taken home hundreds of books and movies, a tablet, a vibrator, and an amazing blender that cost something like $400. So when his boss lets him take a bunch of workout DVDs and clothes home, Harry knows just who to give them to. Harry liked to run sometimes, do a few pushups here or there, but if he's being honest, he was blessed with a pretty great physique naturally. And muscular legs didn't look good in skinny jeans anyway, so the slightly lanky look worked on him. The few times he saw Number 3 going in and out of his door, he had a water bottle or running shoes in his hands. Harry guessed he probably hiked. (Harry also guessed that Number 3 probably came back to his apartment, sweaty, winded, and just a tad dirty from hiking the trails in Griffith Park. He probably had to scrub his skin in the shower, to wash the dirt away with vigor. He also probably hyped himself up with endorphins and then had to jerk himself roughly under the warm water. Harry may or may not have thought about this while he was in his own shower.)

So that afternoon, as Harry climbs the stairs towards his apartment, he sees Number 3 in exactly the same way he saw him the first day: back to him, hunched, locking his door. Harry stops in his tracks.

"Hey," he says, trying to keep his voice level.

Number 3 turns towards him, in surprise. He lets his screen door slam as he steps away from it.

"Hey."

"I feel like we've seen each other a few times since I moved in, but I've never introduced myself. I'm Harry. I live in 10, almost directly above you."

"Oh yeah, you're new," Number 3 says as he fiddles with his keys.

"Yeah, I am."

"I'm Zayn. I obviously live here," he says, jerking his thumb towards the 3, as he smiles and walks towards the stairs. They shake hands, both with easy smiles on their faces. Harry doesn't want to use his good smile just yet, though. He holds it back, like a good poker hand. Zayn doesn't get the good smile so easily.

"So Zayn, this might seem weird, but I actually have some stuff for you, if you'd like it."

Zayn just stares at him, a look of wariness starting to cross his face.

Harry chuckles, "Well it's just that I've seen you in gym clothes before, and my job sometimes gives us free shit that gets sent to the office. I have a bunch of DVDs and athletic-type stuff that I'll never use, and I figured you might like it. Otherwise it'll just sit in my closet."

The look on Zayn's face disappears instantly, and suddenly he's smiling. He's smiling so big, his face looks completely different, more open. Harry almost has to grab the railing from how bright it is. He feels his knees practically buckle.

"Wow, that would be really great, thank you. You sure you don't want to keep it? Free shit is free shit, right?" Zayn says, still smiling.

"No, you can definitely have it all. I'll bring it down to you now, yeah?" Harry then stupidly gestures towards Zayn's door, the door he just locked, the door he was just stepping away from to leave. He suddenly wants to throw himself off a bridge.

"Can I just come up and grab it now? I was about to head out."

"Uh yeah, sure. My place is a mess though, so don't judge me."

Harry quickly runs up the remaining stairs and throws open his door, wondering if he has enough time to clean up. The new blue wall behind his bed is still bare, no pictures, no artwork. There are clothes everywhere, a sock hanging off his lamp, his desk littered with random notebooks and paper from the "writing" he had been trying to do.

Zayn steps in behind him, his hands in his pockets, surveying the room.

"This isn't that messy. I've seen worse."

Harry looks at him and sees Zayn is still smiling. Harry wonders if he ever stops smiling, if the tongue pressed against his teeth is used for anything other than highlighting that perfect smile. Okay, so now Harry is thinking about Zayn's tongue, and how pink it probably is, and suddenly his jeans are constricting him and he still wants to throw himself off a bridge.

The moxie Harry had planned to put to use is clearly circling the drain. He feels like he's flailing.

"So here you go, this bag is full of those hard-looking workout programs they sell on TV at like four in the morning. You know, with that massive guy who makes people jump around for 90 days or something. And there's clothes and water bottles. But I'm sure you have clothes and water bottles, so throw those away if you don't want them." Harry feels hot all of a sudden. His apartment and his blue wall weren't ready for this today, and they definitely weren't meant to house as beautiful of a person as Zayn. His head doesn't have enough room to process Zayn. He feels entirely out of control.

"Thank you, seriously. This is really nice of you," Zayn says as he peers into the black mesh bag. "I like to hike Griffith a lot, but it'd be nice to do this kind of program to get my ass back into shape."

"It looks pretty in shape to me."

And there it is. _There_ is Harry fucking Styles. Harry might feel like he's flailing, but he can't help but do this dance with hot boys. He hates himself for doing it, but Harry slowly glances up to face Zayn, and plasters on the megawatt smile that has had other men on their knees in no time at all.

Zayn must notice it, but he looks away, laughing to himself.

"Well thanks for this, Harry. I mean it. I have an audition to get to, so I'll see you around?"

Just as fast as Harry was freaked out by having Zayn in his apartment, he just as fast wants him to stay, forever if he'd like. "Oh, an audition for what?"

"Some shitty show on TBS or something. But an audition is an audition."

"So you're an actor. That's cool."

"Yeah, I guess." Zayn rubs at the back of his neck and looks at the floor.

"Well good luck. I'm sure you'll smash it," Harry says, smiling again, more sultry this time, and with a slight lean towards Zayn.

Zayn leans away from him.

"See you around, Harry. And thanks again!" Zayn closes the screen door quietly and goes down the stairs, two at a time, and is out the gate in a flash.

Harry stands there for what feels like ages, thinking about the entire interaction. He wanted to talk to Number 3, and he did. He learned that his name is Zayn and that his tongue demands to be seen when he smiles. He learned that he was right about the hiking.

He also learned that Zayn makes his jeans uncomfortable.

He was fucked.

***

 

They hardly see each other for weeks at a time. And when they do cross paths, Zayn is quickly running out the gate, telling Harry to have a good day over his shoulder. Harry has lived in LA for three years, but this is his first sort-of friendship with an actual actor. Harry thinks Zayn The Actor is one of the busiest people he's ever met.

After their first conversation, Harry fills Niall in on the whole thing. Niall is a naturally curious person (he works for the news department at work, so he claims his nosiness is just his skill set for the workforce) so he has to figure out who the hell Zayn is and why Harry knew his face to begin with. With a little IMDb stalking, they deduce that "Number 3 Zayn" is Zayn Malik, an actor from Florida. He has been in a few TV shows, random episodes here and there, an indie movie or two. Harry realizes that when he was in college, he saw Zayn in an episode of "CSI," as a frat boy who killed his girlfriend. (Not that he would tell Niall, but he actually got hard watching that episode, because Zayn's character and his frat boy friends spent the whole first five minutes shirtless and making out with girls. Clearly Zayn's face stuck with him.) But Harry knows he has to play it cool and act like he doesn't know that Zayn has been on TV and on one of his favorite shows. He doesn't want to be a creep, after all. And in completely non-creepy fashion, that night Harry scrolls through Zayn's IMDb photos and headshots at least twelve times before forcing himself up from his desk.

Harry also knows that he needs something tangible to solidify their friendship. He needs something that will force them to interact. He comes up with what he thinks to be a pretty good plan, all things considered.

Harry sits at his desk one day, pretending to be productive and write, but really he's just listening through his open window for footsteps below in the courtyard. Finally he hears what he thinks to be Zayn's feet, trotting to his door. Harry jumps up and grabs his keys, on the pretense that he's going to check his mail.

He walks down the stairs just as Zayn is unlocking his door.

"Hey! Long time no talk. How are things?"

Zayn turns towards him, a tight smile on his face. "Oh hey Harry. Things are okay. How 'bout you?"

"Oh you know, just working away, trying to come up with ideas for a novel. Nothing has stuck quite yet." Harry opens his mail box, even though he had already checked it earlier.

"Yeah, that must be tough," Zayn says as he starts towards his door. He clearly wants to be inside and away from the conversation.

Harry never met a conversation he didn't want to steer his way, so he plows forward anyways.

"Hey, so I have a favor to ask you. And you can totally tell me no, I won't be mad."

Zayn blinks a few times, but he must be curious.

"Lay it on me."

"I'm going back home to Iowa for my cousin's wedding in a few days, and I was wondering if you'd water my plant while I was gone. You wouldn't have to do it a ton, just like three times, so it doesn't die. I'm determined to keep something alive besides myself, and getting a dog would be exhausting, so…" Harry smiles at him.

"Uh, sure. Yeah, I could do that. Can't be too time consuming. Just let me know when you want me to do it. And like, how much water to use or whatever."

"Absolutely. I'll write something up for you. And I'll give you an extra key to get into my apartment. It's quite big, so it can't really be moved down to your place."

It's about this time that Harry actually hears himself, hears the plan coming out of his mouth, and he realizes how fucking stupid he is. Yeah sure, he has a huge plant in his kitchen that does technically need to be watered while he's away, a plant he really does want to live, a plant he's become quite attached to. But he could ask Niall to do it. And now he's bothering his gorgeous neighbor, who he barely knows, to enter his apartment during his free time, to water a fucking plant.

But Zayn just gives him a polite smile and says, "Sure Harry, just let me know the details. I can do it."

"Thank you, really. I'll only be gone for a few days and I'll totally owe you."

"Nah, you don't have to owe me," Zayn says as he turns to open his door.

It's as he's stepping inside that Harry says, "I'd like to owe you. Maybe." Harry smiles and turns back towards the stairs. "See you around, Zayn."

Harry lets himself have a minute of heavy breathing inside his apartment, before he bangs his head once against the wall.

 

***

 

"Wait, why is this list titled Jem Finch 101?"

They're standing in Zayn's apartment, right before Harry is about to leave for the airport, three days after they talked about Plantgate. He had handed Zayn the bulleted list of how to care for his plant, along with an extra key, and now Zayn is looking at him like he has three heads.

"My plant. Um, named Jem Finch. They say you should talk to plants, it helps them grow. And you can hardly talk to something without a name, so I named it after my favorite literary character."

Now Harry actually feels like he has three heads, and he wants to shoot himself in each and every one of them. He glances around and notices that Zayn's entire space (the same small space as Harry's, mirrored opposite of his lay out just upstairs) is immaculate. His furniture looks worn in, settled, old. But it's all neat, the shoes by the door lined up perfectly, no dust to be seen on any surface. Even his bed is made. As Harry turns back to him with his brow furrowed, he's itching to ask Zayn what the hell kind of grownup makes their bed nowadays.

But Zayn just laughs and slips the list and key into his pocket.

"Here, give me your phone. We should exchange numbers in case I have any questions or something goes wrong." Zayn holds his hand out, waiting for Harry to hand his phone over.

"Oh, yeah. That. That is a good idea." Harry gives him the phone, brushing his fingers against Zayn's only slightly, not that he meant to.

"I mean, not that watering a plant can in any way go _wrong_ ," Zayn says as he types his number in. "But you have quite the instruction list here, so it feels like you're attached to this plant. I figure you'd like to have me on speed dial, to see how she's doing, see if I'm speaking to her enough."

"He."

Zayn stares at him.

Harry takes his phone back, his cheeks turning pink.

"You're weird, Harry. It suits you."

"You're _not_ weird, Zayn. You seem really put together and straight laced. And it freaks me out."

Zayn stares at him again.

"Have a good flight, Harry. I'll take good care of Jem," Zayn says as he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Thanks, Zayn. See you soon."

***

 

Harry resolutely does not think about Zayn too much while he's home. Sure, Zayn texts him a few photos of Jem to let Harry know that he's not dead, but otherwise they don't talk much. Harry gets drunk with Gemma at the wedding, toasts his mom in front of everyone because he's missed her, and he sucks the dick of a groomsman in the bathroom of the reception hall.

It's while he's sucking the groomsman's dick, Patrick something, that he remembers how Zayn called him weird, but had made "weird" sound oddly like "lovely." His tongue feels heavy, saliva seeping out of the corners of his mouth, and Patrick pulls his hair roughly. Harry groans and imagines that Zayn might like to pull his hair, if given the chance some day. Patrick grabs the back of his head for leverage, pushing himself further down Harry's throat. Harry then thinks about the fact that living in LA, while fun, has been lonely. He almost laughs at the fact that it took coming all the way back home for him to get laid. Then he thinks of Zayn's face.

He comes in his pants like a teenager.

***

 

Jem is alive and well, as promised. Harry had hoped that Zayn would be home when he wheeled his suitcase past his door, but the blinds are closed, door shut. Harry opens his own door and sees his spare key sitting on his desk, left by Zayn the last time he came to water Jem. Harry had also hoped that he would have an excuse to go collect it, bring him a present or something, but Zayn is insistently polite, much to Harry's chagrin.

Harry figures a text can't be too weird, to say thank you for the trouble, so he does just that.

_Harry: Hey man, thanks for your help! Jem looks well nourished. His leaves haven't wilted a bit. :)_

A few minutes later, while Harry is putting away his boots, his phone beeps.

_Zayn: no worries dude. but hey i have a favor to ask u now, if it's cool._

Harry starts sweating. Zayn could literally ask Harry to murder someone for him, and he'd probably say yes. Even if this favor is as small as needing a cup of sugar, Harry is itching to find out what it is, to know it, accomplish it and shove the result in Zayn's face to get a pat on the head like a fucking puppy. He feels like a crackhead about to take a hit.

_Harry: Anything, say the word._

_Zayn: do u have cable?_

_Harry: Oh yeah, I need my cable. Total TV junkie, as it were. Need it for work as well. Why?_

_Zayn: well i actually have an episode airing tonight of a show i did, and i'm supposed to live tweet it, whatever the fuck that means. would you mind if i watched up in your place? i'll leave right after, swear. at 9?_

_Harry: No problem! See you then._

Harry starts pacing. He looks around at his mess of an apartment and knows he has to get his shit together. Zayn is clearly used to things being neat, and Harry has the briefest thought that he wants to be the type of person who does the things Zayn needs done. (That thought freaks him out, but he hurriedly pushes it aside.)

Harry unpacks his suitcase, makes his bed, throws the pile of clothes on his floor unceremoniously into his closet, cleans his bathroom, vacuums, and does the dishes. At the end of it all, he's a sweaty mess. So he showers and meticulously cleans every inch of his body. It's almost 9 and Harry wants the place to be perfect.

Five minutes to 9, Harry notices the bottle of lube peaking out from under his bed and almost has a fucking heart attack. God forbid Zayn thinks he creepily leaves lube out with company over. So Harry is just shoving it under his mattress as he hears the knock at the door.

Zayn looks even more perfect than the last time Harry saw him. He's not dressed casual, like he's about to hike. He's in nice black jeans, black boots, and a black henley. His hair is slicked up and there's a shadow of stubble on his cheekbones. Harry wants to rub his face against it until his skin is raw. They briefly say hello and Harry thanks him again for watering Jem, but Zayn just smiles and waves his hand like it's no big deal.

"So what show is this exactly?" Harry says as he settles into his desk chair.

Zayn awkwardly looks around and then sits in the small chair near the TV. "Uh, it's this show on Fox. It's this supernatural show. I don't have a huge part, just a cop who works with the main scientists. But it's all about social media these days, so my agent says I have to live tweet it with the rest of the cast. Can't hurt, I guess." The show starts up as he gets his phone out.

"Totally. And I do know this show, we write about it for the site all the time. It's really popular this season. Good for you being a part of it, no matter how small the part may seem," Harry says quietly, smiling at him.

Zayn smiles, looking back to the TV.

"You look nice. Did you have a big day?" Harry tries to sound casual.

Zayn isn't paying much attention, he's looking down at his phone, but he says, "Oh, not too exciting. But I'm going out after this, so."

Frowning, Harry runs a hand through his hair as he adjusts the volume.

Throughout the episode, Harry can't help but feel in the way. Zayn is supposed to be concentrating on the story, to tweet at fans in real time. Harry feels like he's interrupting any time he talks to Zayn, so after a while, he shuts up and leaves him to it. Harry settles on pulling his laptop close to his body, "writing" something important.

It isn't until Harry asks Zayn if he wants a drink that it becomes better. Zayn perks up, accepting the vodka soda Harry hands him, drinking it hungrily. He makes conversation about memorizing the crazy lines for this type of sciencey show though, so Harry considers it a win. He continues tweeting while Harry "writes" and at the end of the episode, Harry isn't sure what to do.

"Well thanks Harry, for letting me come up here. I'm too broke for cable, so…" Zayn rubs at the back of his neck as he stands up.

"It's no problem. Any time you have to do this again, let me know. And if I'm not here, you can always keep the spare key, just in case."

"Oh yeah, okay sure. If you're sure."

"I am."

"Okay."

They stand there and look at each other, both swaying slightly from the vodka. Harry so badly wants to touch Zayn, as if his entire body is buzzing to propel him forward and into Zayn's space. But he doesn't, he stands there and fights every natural urge he's ever had.

So it's a surprise when Zayn reaches for him first. It's not romantic, or anything other than a grateful hug from one friend to another, but it's something. Harry can't believe that Zayn was the first one to touch. Harry doesn't even know if Zayn is gay, but their bodies are close and Zayn has his arms around Harry's broad shoulders, so he tells his brain to shut the fuck up.

As they step apart, Harry is very aware of the air between then. It feels heavy. It feels good. So instead of pulling his arms back into his body right away, he lets them slowly drag down Zayn's arms. He lightly runs his index finger over the back of Zayn's hand not holding his phone, and Harry smiles at him.

It's not until Zayn is out the door that Harry realizes the spare key that was sitting on his desk is now gone, and most likely in Zayn's pocket, now just Zayn's Key, for any "just in case" TV scenarios. It makes Harry feel warm.

They see each other a few times over the next few weeks, coming or going, breezing out of their apartments, glancing at each other if they can. It's not much, but Harry thinks they're turning into friends. Maybe they'll turn into something more, he thinks one day, smiling to himself.

And for a while, that's that.

***

 

For a while, Harry secretly watches every episode of television Zayn has ever been in. He watches the "CSI" episode numerous times, the cop show he did a whopping four episodes of where he played a paramedic. He even found the canceled NBC show that only ran for six episodes, which only featured two brief scenes with Zayn.

He is amazing in every single one of them, every scene. He's intense, he's present, he's stoic.

And maybe one day, if it doesn't sound creepy coming out of his mouth, Harry will tell him that.

***

 

The next time Harry's aware of the Zayn situation, or gives real thought to his feelings for Zayn, is when he sees a girl coming out of Zayn's apartment. Harry had woken up early for a Saturday, gone across the street to Starbucks to grab coffee, when he's walking through the front gate and sees the girl.

She has an obscenely tight black dress on, long blonde hair, and smudged eye makeup. She has her heels and purse in one hand, while the other is slowly pulling Zayn's door shut, as quietly as possible.

Harry stands at the bottom of the stairs, transfixed. The girl Zayn fucked last night is leaving and Harry physically can't look away.

It's not until she's smiling to herself, making her way towards the front gate that she notices Harry looking at her. She just glances at him and continues out to the street.

Harry has a sudden urge to find a hot guy to fuck. He wants to bring someone home and fuck against his blue wall. He wants to forget Zayn Malik ever existed as a sexual being, and instead just see him as a neighbor, who maybe smells nice and loves acting because it's his passion and waters plants. He wants to see Zayn as a non-sexual entity. He wants to shove someone's face onto his dick.

But Harry lives in opposites, so instead of going with his gut instinct to connect with another human being on a purely basic physical level, Harry climbs the stairs, drinks his coffee at his desk, locks his door, and doesn't get out of bed or talk to a soul for four days.


	2. Chapter 2

For most kids, when they have a bad day, they go home and cry, wipe their noses, get over it. Most kids get upset over a mean kid at school, or get a bad grade on a test, and go home to their mothers, eat extra dessert or stay up late to watch "The Tonight Show" as a little treat.

Harry Styles was never like most kids.

When Harry had a bad day, it was like the entire world stopped turning. Governments shut down. Wars ceased to be fought. It all stood still.

His mom would try the dessert route, the staying-up-late treat, anything to make Harry smile after something knocked him off kilter. She bought him presents, she convinced Gemma time and again to talk to the mean kid at school, anything to cheer Harry up. To see him smile. To knock him back into place. But nothing ever worked. They all just learned to give him time, to find his way back. He would get sad in kindergarten over not having his dad around, and really sad in primary school for getting yelled at for being "too boisterous" in class. Junior high was no different, but for a different reason.

Harry distinctly remembers the day in seventh grade, the day he knew he was gay. The day was nothing special, nothing to write home about. And the story behind Harry's big self discovery wasn't even traumatic, considering the hardships other young gay kids went through. No, by all accounts, it was pretty simple.

Harry was sat in the back of the science classroom, next to Alexis D'Agosta, starring off into space when something caught his eye. He looked to his left and saw Matthew Lieberman chewing on a pen. Matthew was also spacing off and happened to be running his pen cap along his bottom lip. Every so often, he'd dart his tongue out, then bite the plastic, tap it against his mouth. Harry didn't know how long he stared, but he couldn't look away. There was something about Matthew's mouth that wouldn't let him go. He suddenly felt a nudge on his leg and glanced at Alexis, who gave him a knowing look, and then a small smile.

Harry was caught, he was gay, and he was devastated.

That was the first time Harry got so low he couldn't function. It was the first time he went home, got in his bed, and couldn't get up from it. It wasn't even a conscious decision. His body just shut down and he couldn't stop the hollow, empty feeling in his stomach. He didn't go to school for a week.

The rest of junior high and high school were mostly fine. Harry never came out, or explicitly told people he was gay, but he also never dated or tried to hook up with girls. He went to dances with them, held their hands in the hallways, kissed a few, flirted like it was his job. But he knew the second he saw Matthew Lieberman licking a pen that he didn't feel for girls what most boys felt for girls. He tried not to let it get him down, let it get to him like other things got to him. He knew he had depression problems, and even though they never went away and he still had bad days, he vowed he'd never let his sexuality, or a boy, or a mouth, keep him in bed again.

And up until Zayn, it hadn't.

 

***

 

Harry knew it was irrational to be depressed over a person he barely knew, a person who didn't have time for him, a person who owed him nothing. Zayn was practically a stranger, a neighbor too nice to turn down favors, a guy who fucked girls. But depression never gives a shit what the circumstances are. Harry's depression certainly didn't.

Harry also knew himself, he knew his crutch well, and the second he buried himself in his comforter, he sent off a quick email to his boss from his phone, saying a family emergency was going to keep him from the office for a few days. It was a lame excuse, but Harry didn't have the heart to care.

The first day in bed, he slept. He barely tossed or turned. He didn't eat. He ignored his phone.

The second day in bed, he couldn't sleep at all. He scrolled through his phone, he watched shitty TV, read a sad book. He didn't eat. He turned his phone off completely.

The third day in bed was a mixture of days one and two. He finally texted his mom so she wouldn't worry, but she knew. She always knew when it was bad. So she had Gemma text him various anecdotes from home, weird stories, funny pictures. He ate a sandwich.

It's not until the fourth day in bed that Niall shows up.

Harry is under the covers, face down, breathing in old detergent from his gross sheets when he hears the knock. He lives in a tiny studio apartment, with his bed up against an entire wall of windows, windows that look right out to the walkway and courtyard outside, covered by thick black curtains that Harry's sure on some level he put up for this exact situation. And he knows Niall's not an idiot, that Niall knows he's been home, unable to get up.

"Harry, I know you're in your bed on the other side of these windows. The glass isn't thick. I know you can hear me and I know you're purposefully not answering your phone or the door. Get the fuck up and let me in."

Niall's voice doesn't even sound muffled. Niall is literally two inches from Harry's face and he still refuses to acknowledge him, to move a curtain, to show he's listening.

"Jay mentioned that he got an email from you about a family emergency. He wasn't mad, because he believed you, but I'm not a fucking moron. I've tried calling you like a thousand times. I know you're in there and I know you're having trouble getting up. But I'm here now and I'm telling you to let me IN, Harry."

Harry doesn't move, but he can feel the tears coming, the guilt building up.

"Haz, I'm not mad. This is my stern voice, but I'm not mad. And I'm not going to judge you for being sad again. But you have to open the door." Harry hears a sound rumble against the door and guesses it's Niall's forehead.

Just then Harry hears the front gate slam shut. There are more footsteps. Feet climbing the stairs, the shuffling of a body as it walks towards Harry's door.

"Hey, uh… Do you need something? Do you know Harry?"

Zayn's voice. Harry almost forgot what it sounded like.

"Hey. I'm Harry's old roommate, his friend. I'm Niall."

Harry hears nondescript sounds, them probably shaking hands, eyeing each other warily.

"I haven't seen Harry lately. I figured he'd gone out of town or something. I thought about texting him about Jem."

"No, he's in there. He can probably hear us right now, actually." His voice suddenly sounds close and up to the glass again. "Hear that, Hazza? We fucking know you're there. Open your fucking door."

"Why won't he open up? Is his pissed at you or something?"

"No."

Harry hears more sounds, more shuffling of feet, and suddenly it sounds like Zayn's voice is close to the glass too.

"Harry?"

Harry reaches out from under the blanket and almost touches the curtain by his face, the curtain being the only thing separating him from seeing Zayn again. Almost.

"Harry, it's Zayn. Um. I don't know what's happening, or why you won't open the door, but Niall looks pretty upset, so. If you could open it, if you could let him see that you're not dead, that'd be good, I think."

That's it.

That is what does it, what makes him feel the shittiest he's felt in a while. Which is saying something, seeing as how he can't leave his apartment, or eat, or shower at the moment. But hearing Zayn's soft voice telling him to open up, describing Niall's anguish, reminding him that he's NOT dead… that's what does it for Harry. That's what makes him _want_ to want to get up again. So he does.

He slowly gets out of bed and walks to the door. He purposefully unlocks it loudly, to announce himself, to ready Niall for what he's about to see.

Harry opens it and steps back.

Niall and Zayn both stare at him from the other side of the screen door, neither blinking, neither looking away.

Quietly Niall says, "Hey buddy. I'm glad you're here."

Niall reaches out a hand, opens the screen, and swings it wide. Harry stares at him, as he wears nothing but a ratty black tshirt and red boxer briefs. He probably smells, he probably looks like a corpse, his eyes red, face puffy. He doesn't say anything, just shrugs his shoulders.

Niall steps forward and engulfs Harry in a massive hug. He crowds into Harry's space, almost stepping on his toes, wrapping his body completely around Harry's torso. He squeezes hard, he barely breathes, as he forces his face into Harry's chest. And eventually Harry lifts his arms to squeeze Niall back. This sudden rush of pressure to his entire body is exactly what he needed. It jolts him somehow, reawakens something in him.

Harry tilts his head up from Niall's neck and looks Zayn in the eye. Zayn doesn't say anything, doesn't step forward to touch Harry or offer him comfort. But the corners of his mouth tilt up as he nods at Harry, eyes giving a silent _good for you_ , for letting Niall in. He turns and walks back down the stairs.

Harry holds Niall tighter against his chest.

***

 

Once Harry lets Niall in, Niall doesn't leave. He gingerly takes off Harry's tshirt and nudges him towards the shower. It's while he's in there, head bent under the rushing water, that Harry realizes maybe living alone wasn't such a good idea. At least when he lived with Niall, he had someone just outside his bedroom door who could barge in and jump on him when he got like this. Maybe he let this happen to himself.

When he finally emerges from the steamy bathroom, he sees clean sheets on his bed, a candle burning on his desk, and Niall on the phone with who he guesses is either his mom or Gemma. They deserve to know he's on his way back to the land of the living, so he touches Niall's shoulder as he walks past him to the kitchen. He pours himself a large glass of water and drinks the entire thing. Then he drinks a second one. He fills a third and pours the whole thing into Jem's pot, silently apologizing for the neglect.

They eat pizza in his bed as the sun sets, as a movie plays on TV. Niall tells him what he's missed at work, about the stupid breaking news stories that have happened. One involves a Disney star, one a dumb socialite in New York. Harry laughs and Niall feeds off it.

That night, Niall sleeps in Harry's bed with him. Harry can't sleep for long though, so he instead spends most of the night playing with Niall's hair, lightly tugging it, running his fingers through it. He forgot how much he loves touching someone, no matter how small the touches may be, how much he craves that closeness. Niall sleeps through it and Harry is grateful for him all over again.

In the morning, Harry wants to get up and get coffee, so they do.

It's a start.

***

 

Harry finally sees Zayn a few weeks later. He's just come home from work and starts towards the stairs, when he glances towards the brass 3, expecting to see a closed door. But instead he sees that it's open, the only thing separating Zayn from the courtyard being the screen.

Harry briefly wonders if venturing towards the source of his most recent depression spiral is the right move, but Harry's never been very smart, so. He heads to the door.

He knocks gently against the screen frame and peers inside.

"Zayn? Can I come in?"

Zayn pops his head around the corner, where he's stood in his kitchen. "Of course, man. What's going on?"

Harry walks in and sets his bag by the door. He's not sure if he should take his shoes off, what with how neat Zayn's entire life seems. But in the end he leaves them on and ventures into the kitchen. His palms start to sweat.

Zayn is standing over his sink, facing away from Harry, washing his hands. The back of Zayn's head looks just as perfect as the rest of him, so Harry allows himself to look for a few seconds. He sees a tattoo peaking out of his shirt, right below his hairline, and he itches to ask what it is. He wonders if their tattoos would line up well next to each other, what Zayn's taste like. But he shakes his head, ridding himself of the thought.

"Hey, so. Thank you. For what you did. For me."

Zayn turns to him, drying his hands. "What do you mean?"

"For like, convincing me to open the door for Niall. It was shitty of me, and selfish, to leave him standing out there."

Zayn stares at him.

So Harry continues. "I forget that you don't know me very well. But I just get really, uh… down. Sometimes. And it can be hard for me to get up some days. Niall knew I gave my boss a bullshit excuse and came to get me up and out of it. But I clearly needed a push, and you helped me see that even when I'm sad, the world is still moving forward without me. And I was being a shitty friend, so. Thanks. For that."

"No need to thank me. It seemed like Niall knew exactly what was going on, so I'm sure you would've let him in eventually. It's what we crazy humans do, let people in. Sometimes it takes a little time, s'all."

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right."

Harry lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding. He can do this. He can be around Zayn, let Zayn say nice, smart things to him and not get weird. He can think Zayn is hot, that Zayn is amazing and talented, and not get depressed over girls coming out of his apartment. Depression or not, sad days be damned, he can force himself to be Harry fucking Styles again. Maybe he has to. Maybe that's what does it in the first place, maybe it's what has propelled him out of his depression all this time.

It's then that Zayn steps forward and grabs Harry for a hug. Maybe he senses Harry needs it, maybe he doesn't do it for himself, but just for Harry's sake. For whatever reason, it doesn't matter, because Harry doesn't care. This is the closest they've ever been. This is the most he's ever been able to appreciate Zayn's scent. So he holds on. They stand there in a close hug for what seems like hours, days, a year. Harry savors every second. He holds on tight.

Zayn starts to pull away and says, "Well, Harry… Seeing as how we mostly just do random shit for each other, I have a favor to ask you."

"Anything, say the word."

"Well, tomorrow is Halloween and I have to go to a party with some friends of mine. So I was wondering if you could help me put a costume together."

"Help you how?"

"I always go as a rock star. I usually just wear old clothes and put on a stupid 80s hair band wig. But I wanted to do something at least a little different this year, so I got stuff to be a scary gothic guy." He smiles at Harry, his tongue poking out behind his teeth. Harry bites his lip hard.

Zayn continues. "So if you would be so kind as to paint my nails black and put on some eyeliner for me, I'd be very grateful. I'm shit at doing that kind of stuff on myself."

Harry laughs at that. Zayn must think he's laughing at how ridiculous the costume is, but if he's being honest, Harry's laughing in pure giddiness, loving the fact that his life has been blessed enough to be able to see THE sexy Zayn Malik in fucking eyeliner. If he can get through this costume process without his hard-as-a-rock dick falling off, it'll be a fucking miracle.

"Sure, I can do that. Gemma and I used to do our nails all the time before I realized how ridiculous I looked, walking around with pink talons." He smiles at the memory, of Gemma smacking a kid for laughing at Harry for wearing it.

"Who's Gemma?"

"My older sister. She's the best. Everyone loves her."

"You Styles kids, man. Is she as charming as you?" Zayn smiles, as he leans against the counter, crossing his arms.

"No, that's just me," he says, smiling back. "But Gem is definitely the smart one. And she's a lot funnier than me. She's the better Styles in almost every way."

"That can't be true."

"The only thing I'm better at is snagging boys." Harry says it without even thinking about it, because it's genuinely a true statement. He knows Gemma doesn't put herself out there in relationships, whereas he can throw himself into any guy's bed at the drop of a hat. (Not that he has much in LA, but college was a very exciting time for him, just ask his old roommate.)

But Zayn's smile falters slightly, as he glances down at the floor. There it is, then. Harry has officially told Zayn, his sort-of friend, his hot neighbor, that he likes a good dick up his ass. It had to come out eventually, and Harry hopes it isn't weird. They both stand there for a few seconds.

"So you can come by here tomorrow, at like 9? To help me with my goth look?" Zayn says as he glances back up to Harry's face.

"I'll be here."

"If you have Halloween plans of your own, seriously just tell me. No big deal if you can't."

"I'll be here."

As Harry walks up the stairs a few minutes later, he realizes his hands never stopped sweating.

 

***

 

The next day, Harry spends all morning trying to write. Write something. Write anything. He forces himself to sit at his desk, with a lit candle, a venti latte, and an open MacBook. He knows if he just sits and waits, something will come to him. It has to. It's been long enough, only writing shitty pieces for the website, writing random blog posts about his life to update his extended family back home. He was supposed to be writing a novel in California, not obsessing over his fucking neighbor.

But nothing comes to him and he just sits there some more.

Eventually he gives up and goes for a run. He tries to clear his head, really psych himself up for seeing Zayn later. When he gets back, he researches good eyeliner techniques, to make Zayn's dark amber eyes stand out amongst the black lines. Fuck it if he's never done eyeliner on someone before. He doesn't think it'll be that hard.

It's actually very hard.

Or rather, Harry is hard.

Because as it turns out, everything Zayn does or says makes Harry hard. When Zayn answers the door at 9, he smiles that massive smile at Harry again and he almost runs back upstairs, to change out of his goddamn skinny jeans that do nothing but cut into his erection. But he doesn't, he tries to be cool and saunters into Zayn's place, like nothing is wrong. He hears Frank Ocean playing from a laptop. He starts to sweat.

Harry can tell right away that Zayn has been drinking. He can smell the whiskey as Zayn walks around him as he sits on the small couch, Zayn picking up various articles of clothing, babbling about the party his friends are taking him to. It's in Hollywood, on some rooftop with a bunch of actors he knows. He sounds absolutely buzzed about it.

"So how should we do this?" Zayn says as he puts his hands on his hips. He's wearing tight black jeans, ripped at the knees, and a black tshirt with the sleeves cut off. Harry eyes the tattoos all over his arms, wanting to touch every single one of them. He shows Harry the costume jewelry he bought that morning to highlight the look: skull rings, a choker with spikes on it, leather bracelets, and asks again how they should proceed.

Harry doesn't know what to say to that. He just looks up at him.

"Like, I have the black nail polish and the black eyeliner. But I don't know how you should put it all on. So like, do we sit? Do you stand in front of me and do it? Should we do the eyeliner first or the nails? Do nails dry fast?"

Harry laughs quietly, standing up. "Come here. Let's do the nails first, so they can dry while I do your eyes."

Harry pulls Zayn to sit next to him on the couch, so they each have a leg tucked under them, facing each other. Zayn grabs the nail polish from the small coffee table, handing it to Harry, and it's then that Harry sees the pipe packed with weed and a lighter. It's cashed out, clearly just used. He looks back at Zayn and notices that Zayn definitely looks blissed out. Zayn gives him a small smile.

Harry flails his arms around a bit, surveying the situation, deciding how he should go about doing another guy's nails. He's about to suggest that Zayn put his hands face down on the coffee table, when Zayn surprises him and puts his hands on Harry's thighs. It's all Harry can do to not gasp dramatically. He looks down at Zayn's hands, splayed across his legs, waiting to be attended to. He finally glances at Zayn's face. He can't read his expression. Zayn just looks back at him, waiting. Harry's dick presses against his tight jeans in protest. He silently apologizes to it.

"Okay so, I haven't done anyone's nails besides my own since I was like seven. So give me a break if it looks terrible."

"Harry, I'm about to go be a goth for Halloween. For one night. It just needs to look like I have black nails, relax."

Harry shakes the bottle, sets it back on the table, and gets to work. He grabs Zayn's left hand first, holding it gently, as he starts painting. He can feel Zayn getting restless after only the first few, wanting to move, to get up, to not be sitting.

"Stop fidgeting. You'll make me mess up."

"Sorry."

Harry works on his right hand next, slowly running the nail polish over each perfect nail on his annoyingly perfect hand. The best part of this whole thing (or, the worst part, if you asked Harry's groin) is getting to see Zayn's hands up close. He has long, sturdy fingers. His nails are short, neat. Harry notices his palms are quite calloused. He almost asks Zayn how they got that way, what manual labor he's done in his life. He also wants to ask Zayn to shove those fingers inside of him, but he can't think too hard about that just now.

"Okay that should be good. It's not perfect. And if Gemma were here, she'd probably kick me for how much they'll chip tonight. But whatever. They'll do. Blow on them."

Zayn eyes him skeptically. "Blow on them? Really?"

"Yes, Zayn. Really. You don't want them to be sticky and catch on anything. Don't be such a dude about it, hold your fingers up and blow."

If Harry were a better person, he would let Zayn do this in peace. But he's a terrible person, so he quickly grabs his phone and snaps a picture of Zayn delicately holding his fingers up by his face, blowing air onto his wet nails. It may be the best picture Harry will ever take in his godforsaken life. Zayn looks like he's about to yell at Harry for snapping a photo of him in such a non-Zayn-like position, but instead he rolls his eyes and laughs.

For the eyeliner, they sit in the same position, one leg under each of them, facing the other. They sit close.

"Right, so. I'm even more shit at eyeliner, because I've never done it before. I read about it though, and I think I got it."

"Shit. Just don't poke my eye out and blind me."

"As if I'd let you go blind? Let you miss seeing your own reflection for the rest of your life? I'm not evil, Zayn. Please." They laugh together as Harry takes the cap off. "Look down. Try not to move."

It's only as Harry starts putting the black smudge onto Zayn's eyelids that he realizes that Zayn's hands are back on his thighs. Even though they don't have to be there for this part. Even though Harry knows his nail polish is mostly dry and doesn't need air, especially the air currently near his dick. He also realizes that to get the best leverage for painting eyelids, Harry has to hold Zayn's face in one hand while he works with the other. Harry's palm burns, the skin from Zayn's cheekbone and neck are burning him. He clears his throat.

He works slowly, only lightly running the pencil over the delicate skin around Zayn's eyes. He can tell Zayn hates it, that he's uncomfortable, that his eyes can't stop watering from the sensation. But he doesn't say anything about it, just let's Harry work. Harry worries about his breath, if it's terrible, if he's breathing on him or making him feel weird. So he shakes his head and reminds himself he brushed his teeth mere seconds before walking out the door.

"Okay now look up. Open your eyes and look up, I want to put some on your bottom lashes so we can smudge it. Really goth it up, yeah?"

"Okay."

Zayn opens his eyes and looks up and over Harry's head, looking at the ceiling. Harry readjusts the hand holding Zayn's jaw, and quickly puts black all along his lower lash lines, winging it up slightly on the ends. When he's satisfied, he takes his pinky finger and lightly runs it over the black marks he's just made, smudging it out, rubbing it in, moving it around.

"There. Look at me."

Zayn does as he's told. He brings his eyes down, looking straight at Harry's face, and this time Harry really does gasp dramatically. Zayn looks so fucking beautiful this close, with makeup highlighting his already long eyelashes, his plump lips looking so goddamn inviting. Harry can't stop breathing heavily now that he's started. Zayn just keeps looking at him, as if he isn't bothered at all.

Harry can't help himself and says the first thing that pops into his head.

"You have a freckle. Next to your iris. Did you know?"

Zayn smiles. "Yeah, I know. I see it all the time."

"Look at your face up close a lot, huh. I would too, if I had one like it."

Zayn laughs at that, and shakes his head. "No, I mean. I'm an actor. I do acting exercises all the time, where I sit close to a mirror and watch myself read lines. I watch my face to see how I'm emoting, how I look, what my face is conveying. It's important to know how you look when you're crying, or happy, or ecstatic."

Harry stares at him. He stares at his iris freckle. He doesn't know what Zayn's talking about because Harry has never once had the urge to look at his reflection when he's expressing himself. If he's being honest, when he's crying, or happy, or ecstatic, his default setting is to throw that emotion out into the world, at the people around him, into the space he's in, not savor it or appreciate it for himself. But regardless, he wants nothing more than to jump into Zayn's lap and lick into his mouth, taste Zayn's tongue, bite him, hurt him, get eyeliner all over his own face. It's terrifying.

Zayn, on the other hand, just gets up and walks over to the mirror by his bed. He turns his head from side to side, looking at Harry's handiwork. He pulls his hair around a little bit, tugs at his shirt. Finally, he turns to Harry again, painted fingers back on his hip bones.

"How's it look all together? Goth, right?"

"Very goth. You look amazing."

"Thanks for your help, Harry. This looks great."

"No problem."

"Do you have Halloween plans tonight? Anything exciting? Getting into trouble?"

"I might, who knows. The night is young."

The truth is, Harry doesn't have any plans because Niall had wanted him to go to Marina del Rey with a bunch of their friends for a Halloween barbecue that afternoon, but he turned him down so he could doll up his hot neighbor, because, you know, he's fucking pathetic.

Just then Zayn's door opens and a guy walks in. He's tall, really tall, muscular, with olive skin and long black hair that almost matches Zayn's, dressed in the shortest shorts and smallest tshirt Harry has ever seen, sweat bands around his head and wrists. He strolls in like he owns the place, waving at them, and goes directly to the kitchen.

"Hey dick head, say hi," Zayn says as he follows him.

Harry gets up and follows them both to the kitchen, just as Zayn and his friend start opening bottles of beer from the fridge, smacking the lids against the counter.

"Harry, this is Danny. Danny, this is Harry who lives upstairs. He helped me put my costume together. Good, yeah?" He does a full turn.

"Yeah man, looks sick. As you can see, I went the easy route and just put on the smallest work out clothes I could find. If anyone asks, I'm an Olympian from the 80s or something." The two of them laugh together.

Harry stands there awkwardly, not knowing if he's being dismissed or not. He would stay and watch Zayn forever if he could, watch him interact with his friends, the fucking wall, all night, if Zayn asked him to. But Harry remembers that Zayn did not, in fact, ask him to stay, or to go with them to the party. So he knows his time is up.

"Alright boys, have fun in Hollywood. Don't drive. Always wear a condom. 'Safe sex is great sex' and all that." Harry smiles and turns to walk out of the kitchen as Zayn and Danny open two more beers. After making the joke he makes to friends all the time, it occurs to Harry then that while Zayn and Danny may be going to a party with friends, they probably _will_ hook up with random girls, and the thought makes him nauseous.

Zayn follows him to the door, beer in hand. "Thank you again, Haz. You're a life saver."

Harry's heart clenches at the nickname. He doesn't think Zayn's ever called him that before. Before he leaves, he does what he's been wanting to do since he walked in earlier. He grabs Zayn lightly and hugs him. Zayn throws his arm easily up over Harry's shoulder, tugs him in for a beat, and then lets go.

"Have fun tonight, Harry. Don't go too crazy."

"I'll try. You too. Be safe."

Harry walks up the stairs slowly, but waits until he's safely in his apartment to sniff his shirt, to chase the scent of Zayn's apartment, of Zayn, hoping it stuck to him. Luckily it did, it seeped into his clothes, his pores, his fucking lungs, and all he wants to do is curl up in his bed and not change until he smells like himself again. Normally wanting to be in his bed means he's depressed. But right now, he just feels overwhelmed with _want_.

***

 

That night, Harry doesn't toss or turn. He doesn't feel unsettled. He feels warm. Hot.

He dreams of them standing there, looking at each other. He dreams of Zayn's face, of eyeliner smudged down his cheekbones, the stubble along his chin. He sees Zayn smiling at him until his eyes practically disappear, his tongue pressed against his teeth, his head thrown back with utter glee. Harry feels himself reaching out, running his fingers first through Zayn's hair and then down his face, over his shoulders, hands settling on his hips.

Kissing Zayn is heaven. His lips are slightly chapped, but soft. Harry curls his tongue around Zayn's slowly, sinking into it as he pulls his hair. The kiss is sweet, but insistent. Harry thinks he could do it for the rest of his life and still be hungry for it.

Zayn runs his tongue over Harry's jaw, down his neck, biting the muscle where his neck meets his shoulder. He moves his hand down the front of Harry's jeans, his fingers ghosting over Harry's erection. Harry can't stop the noises from leaving his mouth. But Zayn just comes back up and swallows them, sucking them out of Harry, running his tongue along side them. Harry can't stop feeling warm. Hot.

Harry's afraid they're going to come like this, without ever even touching each other, him without knowing what Zayn's calloused hands feel like on his cock. He almost says so, almost tells Zayn to stop, or slow down, or keep going, or _something_. He wants to see Zayn strip his clothes off, or rip them off, or leave them on as he runs out the door. He doesn't know if he wants to keep going or stop himself from tripping over the ledge of something big, something huge.

But Zayn doesn't stop anything, or leave. He crowds closer to Harry, pushes into him, rubs against him. His mouth hasn't left Harry's and at this point, it's not even kissing. They're just breathing together, into each other, biting lips, licking over the red marks they leave. Harry feels Zayn slot his thigh between his, pushing, moving. Harry's eyes roll back in his head as he feels Zayn's cock against his. He wants to see it for himself, to sink to his knees, get his mouth around it. He wants it so bad it almost hurts. But he can't think, can't move, can't do anything other than let Zayn shove against him over and over. Harry's going to come, he's going to make a mess in his pants before Zayn ever even touches his zipper. He can feel it. It starts to build. He grabs the back of Zayn's head, pulls the hair at the nape of his neck, hard. Zayn groans into his open mouth and rubs against Harry harder, more insistent. It's too warm, too hot.

And then everything crashes and the world ends.

Or at least that's all Harry can envision as he sits bolt upright in his bed, panting.

He looks down at his straining erection in his briefs, the wet spot apparent. He was about to come in his sleep, dreaming about Zayn, about _them_. He was so close. But then everything crashed and the fucking world ended, and he's pissed, because he's no dream interpreter, but that can't exactly be good. He shoves a hand down against his cock, trying to ease it. He's not wearing a shirt and he still feels completely flushed and sweaty.

But no, the world didn't end in his dream and nothing crashed in his head, because there are ACTUAL crashes happening outside. He realizes the sounds are coming from the courtyard downstairs. He hears a bottle smash. He pushes the curtain next to his bed aside, to peer down over the landing to see the courtyard below. His stomach drops when he realizes it's Zayn, stumbling. He walks right into the orange tree, smacks his head against it, and falls to the ground.

Harry's brain and body finally forge a connection again, making him mobile, so he's up and grabbing a pair of sweatpants and shoes before he can think any further. Zayn needs him.

Once he's out and down the stairs, he rushes to Zayn, who is now crawling towards his front door, mumbling nonsense.

"Zayn, what the fuck? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Let me see your head."

Zayn keeps crawling, hands and knees moving slower and slower. Harry realizes too late that Zayn is crawling across the shards of broken glass that smashed right before he got there.

"Fuck Zayn, no. You're going to cut yourself, let me help you," Harry says as he rushes to lift Zayn, grabbing him under the arms, pulling him back against his chest. "Come on, Zayn. I got you. I got you. Where are your keys?"

Zayn won't answer, his head falling down to his chest, making the two of them sway back and forth. Harry suspects he doesn't even know where he is, who Harry is, anything at all. So Harry holds onto the orange tree, reaches around to his front, patting at his jeans, searching. He finds them in his right front pocket and maneuvers the both of them to Zayn's door. As he flicks the keys around, searching for one that looks like a house key, Zayn leans his head against the door frame, groaning. Harry's worried Zayn might actually start crying and he doesn't know how to react to crying unless it's his own (in which case, he doesn't react, and he instead just shuts down entirely) so he hopes it doesn't come to that.

"Come on, Zayn. We're home. Let's go inside. Lean into me, babe."

Zayn leans back against Harry's chest as Harry kicks the door open with his foot. He tries to hold Zayn up as he searches for the light switch. Once he can see, he lifts Zayn again and moves him towards the bed. Zayn falls down face first, another groan escaping his lips.

Harry gets to work.

First he shuts the open door, then he turns on the small lamp next to Zayn's bed instead of having the harsh overhead light on. He removes Zayn's boots and turns him over. He looks like a wreck. Harry's lovely eyeliner is smudged all over his eyes, down his cheekbones. There's a cut on his forehead from running into the tree. Harry grabs his hands, inspecting his palms, finding various small cuts from the glass, and notices the nail polish on the ends of his fingers is practically gone, chipped away almost entirely. He sees there are cuts on his knees too.

As politely as he can, Harry reaches for Zayn's zipper. He undoes his jeans and slowly tugs them down his legs, removes his socks. He tries not to stare at the small black boxer briefs, but he can't help it because Zayn truly is fucking beautiful. Then he tries to tug his shirt over his head, and only minimally gets Zayn's arms tangled up in it. Harry wants to get the makeup off his face, but he doesn't know if just water will do it and he doesn't want to disturb Zayn's sleeping by rubbing a harsh towel against his skin, so he leaves it. He does dab at the cut on his forehead and hands, covering them with bandages he finds in the medicine cabinet, doing the best he can.

It's while he's tending to Zayn's knees that Harry allows himself to look up, where he sees more tattoos littering his chest, his collarbones, his hips. But he quickly looks away, not feeling right about studying the personal touches Zayn has added to himself, not without Zayn's permission, not without his say so, or explanation. Harry has artwork all over his body too, and if and when he eventually shows Zayn, he'd like to be conscious for it.

At this point Harry should leave some water on the table, maybe a few aspirin, and head back upstairs. Zayn's inside, moderately comfortable, not dead. But he's not sure how drunk Zayn still is, if it's even just alcohol that's made him this out of it. For all he knows he took something at the party, or was given something he didn't know the effects of. So against his better judgement, Harry does what he does best and does the opposite of what he should. He makes sure Zayn is comfortable and tucked in, tucks his shoes next to the neat row of Zayn's by the door, and then lays on the couch with a thin blanket.

If nothing else, Harry reminds himself that Zayn was the one to get him out of his bed, the one to get Niall inside to clean his life up, yet again.

This is just him paying it forward.

Harry falls asleep, thinking about Zayn's face again, because apparently that's all he can think about these days.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Harry is terrible at a lot of things. He's not athletic, he's clumsy, and aside from writing and grammar, he's not particularly book smart. Plus in most cases, he's afraid to try new things anyway, so there's probably a whole untapped list of stuff Harry would be terrible at as well, had he ever gotten the balls to try them.

He can't ice skate because he once saw a scary episode of some random sci-fi show where a guy fell on the ice and someone skated right over his fingers, cutting them clean off at the knuckles. To this day Harry can't watch anything involving ice skating, because it causes his fingers to ache and his heart to race. He's forgetful and never remembers to take his daily vitamin, no matter how many texts he receives from his mom or Niall. He knows he can be loving, but he can also be hateful and downright mean, spiteful and vicious, when he wants to be. He can't whistle. He can't snap his fingers hard enough to create a sound. He can't get out of bed some days.

But if there's one thing Harry can do, one thing he truly excels at, it's taking care of another human being when they really need it. Need him.

He thinks it comes with the territory of having a debilitating mental block. He's always been taken care of by the best, his mom, and Gemma, and now Niall, he supposes, so it must translate well to him being able to help others.

So Harry isn't surprised when he wakes up before Zayn, already in nurse mode, ready to ease him into the day, out of this hangover, or whatever else is ailing his body after a Hollywood party. He sits up and stretches his back, after fucking it up by sleeping on a tiny couch all night. He glances at his phone and sees that it's almost 9 in the morning.

He looks over at Zayn. He's laying on his stomach, having kicked the covers to the end of the bed, still in nothing but his briefs from the night before. His hair falls around his face and Harry wants nothing more than to climb into bed with him, curl over his body, and brush it away. He wants to rub his shoulders, run his nails down his back, soothe him somehow. Because Harry knows for a fact this is not going to be a fun morning for Zayn.

The most pressing issue is hydration. He's kicking himself for not forcing Zayn to chug water before passing out last night, but he could hardly open his mouth when Zayn was practically comatose. So this morning he'll just have to wake him up. It's not something he looks forward to. But he sucks it up and gets water from the kitchen, settling in next to Zayn on the edge of the bed.

Zayn literally kicks his feet out like a child, while pushing Harry's body away with the feeble strength he has, shaking his head, refusing to wake up.

"Come on, Zayn. Don't do this, you know you need water."

His eyes are still shut as he again tries to push Harry away.

"Zayn. I'll pour this on your head if you don't sit up and at least drink some of it. I promise you'll feel better."

"Harry, what the fuck are you doing here?" he says groggily, his voice practically gone.

"Drink this."

"When did I get home?" Zayn says as he props himself up on one elbow, surveying the room, with one half opened eye. Harry almost laughs at the ridiculous eyeliner still smudged across his face, but he doesn't. "Did you come pick me up?"

"No, you got home somehow last night. I helped you in the door."

Zayn runs his bandaged hand through his hair, wincing when his palm touches the bandage on his forehead. " _Fuck_."

"Here, drink this entire glass. It'll help."

"Okay." He drinks it down in what looks like to be two gulps. He's gasping for air when he hands the glass back. "Fuck. I have to sleep. My head is fucking killing me."

"Do you need anything else? I can make you breakfast."

"I don't have anything in the kitchen. And food sounds like an awful idea."

"Well _I'm_ hungry."

"Jesus, then go upstairs to your fucking apartment and eat. I need to sleep, Harry."

Harry stares at him. Petulant, crabby hungover Zayn isn't very fun and it really doesn't help Harry's vow to nurse him back to health. But Harry has seen this before, this attitude when someone wants to help. It's an attitude he knows well, an attitude he adopts when he's feeling particularly hellish. One of the last times Niall tried getting him get out of bed, he first threw a shoe at Niall's face, telling him to leave him alone once and for all. Niall didn't listen, even when he threw a second shoe, and Harry won't listen now. He's already mentally preparing a grocery list for Zayn's fridge, even as his face falls.

But Zayn sees the hurt in his eyes, and he's a much better person than Harry ever was, so he immediately softens and looks down at his hands.

"Sorry. I just feel like shit. I drank before I even left for the party, smoked too. And then I had some molly when I got there, more drinks. And Danny fucking bailed, so I was all over the place." He looks up at Harry again. "So, sorry. And thanks."

"Worry not, Zayn. I am here to get you better. So go back to sleep."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm going to get you out of bed. Eventually." He gives him a fierce look. This is still him paying it forward, whether Zayn wants to accept it or not.

Zayn just sighs and rolls over. "Okay Haz. Whatever you say."

***

 

Zayn immediately drops back to sleep the second he's facing the windows.

So Harry gets to work.

He picks up Zayn's clothes from the night before and puts them in the laundry basket in the bathroom. He rinses the few dishes in the sink, throws the beer bottles into the trash, sweeps the glass in the courtyard into a dustpan, and finishes by setting a fresh glass of water and a few aspirin tablets by Zayn's bed.

After showering in his own apartment and changing into fresh clothes, he goes to the store and stocks up on various breakfast foods, not knowing what Zayn even likes, and also grabs some candy and other junk food in case that's what he needs instead. In a stroke of genius, he also navigates the makeup aisle and finds some sort of eye makeup remover and cotton swabs.

He isn't surprised twenty minutes later when he lets himself back into Zayn's apartment to see his sleeping frame under a mountain of blankets. The pills are gone though, and the water is half empty, so clearly Zayn had a moment of coherence to take them. Harry smiles to himself.

It's as he's putting away the groceries that he senses Zayn's presence, hovering behind him in the kitchen. When he turns around, Zayn is looking at him, rubbing one of his eyes like a toddler.

"Hello."

"Hey," Zayn sighs as he leans against the counter, still in just his briefs. Harry tells himself over and over, like some sort of chant, _don't look below his neck, focus on his face._ "I thought you'd left."

"No, I told you. I'm taking care of you."

"You really don't have to."

Ignoring him completely, Harry barrels on. "So I got food and I think you should eat something, even if you feel sick. It'll make you feel better. And here," he says, grabbing the bottle of makeup remover and cotton swabs, "wipe that shit off your face. You look like some sort of dying juggalo."

Zayn chuckles at that, taking it in his hands. But he doesn't move, doesn't open the bottle, just closes his eyes and continues leaning against the counter, breathing deeply. Harry knows this feeling too, the feeling of utter exhaustion at even _thinking_ about doing the simplest of tasks, when all your brain wants to do it shut down for a while.

"Here, I'll do it."

"Thank you," he says quietly, carefully handing it back.

So they find themselves in the exact same position as the night before, on the couch, facing each other. But this time, Zayn isn't thrumming with energy, excited hands on Harry's thighs, glint in his eye. This time, he's hunched over slightly, eyes closed, hands sitting limp in his own lap, as Harry readies the cotton swabs.

Harry finds it be kind of pleasant, at least on his end, full circle-like, to be removing the very thing he applied so meticulously to this beautiful face the night before. He softly swipes at Zayn's cheekbones and eyes, taking off the black, removing the smudges he made with his pinky finger only twelve hours ago. Zayn looks like he's about to fall asleep again, just quietly sitting, letting Harry do what needs to be done.

"There. All gone."

Zayn opens his eyes and looks straight into Harry's.

"Thank you."

"No problem. I got you."

"Can I go back to sleep for a little bit? Before you make me eat food?" He sounds like a child, asking permission, praying it's granted. Harry has that same feeling again, the feeling that he'd commit murder if Zayn asked him to, asked nicely enough. So he nods, gesturing Zayn back to his bed. It's as he's moving away from the couch that he hears him murmur, "You're the best."

Harry seems to have lost his voice and doesn't say anything else as Zayn settles back under the covers, facing the windows.

So when Harry goes into the kitchen to get a glass of water for himself, he's not surprised to see that his hands are shaking.

 

***

 

Now he's not sure what to do with himself. He accomplished the tasks he needed to do to get the kitchen in order, did the work that needed to be done. But now that Zayn's sleeping again, Harry doesn't know if he should go back upstairs or not.

He's in the kitchen still deciding when he spots a book on the table, next to a stack of mail, that catches his eye. It's something he's been wanting to read for weeks, a book his mom told him about and sent him, but he kept putting off.

So without really thinking about it, Harry makes a pot of coffee and settles at the table to read.

For the second time that morning, he thinks how pleasant the whole thing is. There he is, sitting in this tiny kitchen with the window above the sink open, birds singing, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a good book in the other. It's nice. He could do this. He shouldn't think that, shouldn't think about how he'd pass his time in the morning before Zayn wakes up, but if he's honest with himself, he could definitely do this every single goddamn morning of his life and feel quite content.

But Zayn is straight. Zayn isn't his to think about. So he pushes it out of his mind and reads.

***

 

Harry's already through a hefty chunk of the book when Zayn walks into the kitchen a while later, rubbing his eyes again, this time wearing sweatpants and a loose white tshirt.

"You're still here."

"I was just reading your book. I can leave."

"Don't."

"Okay."

"And that's not my book."

"Okay."

Harry makes them toast first, and then pancakes and eggs. He bought bacon, but Zayn informs him that he doesn't eat pork, so Harry says he'll take it up to his apartment later, his cheeks pink. They drink coffee and orange juice. Zayn is ravenous and plows through it all.

"See, I knew you could eat."

"I can eat _now_ , Harry. But you rambling about food the second I wake up hungover and pissed? Fuck that, man."

"Fair enough. I won't wake you up so early next time," he says as he picks up their plates and goes to rinse them in the sink. When he actually thinks about what he just implied, he wants to stab himself with a fork.

Maybe Zayn doesn't notice, because he doesn't say anything.

Harry continues cleaning the kitchen while Zayn showers. His hands won't stop shaking.

 

***

 

As it turns out, Harry Styles and Zayn Malik have absolutely nothing in common.

They discover it that afternoon, as they sit together on Zayn's couch, facing the TV, Netflixing episode after episode of "The Office," eating the gummy bears and Pringles Harry picked up earlier.

Harry sees the value of social media, Zayn thinks it's the bane of his existence. Zayn is never late, Harry barely shows up. Harry is terrible with money, Zayn is frugal as all hell.

Zayn is driven, Harry is lazy. Zayn parties too much, Harry sleeps too much. Zayn grew up with a house full of sisters, Harry only had the one.

They don't completely agree politically, Harry wonders how the hell Zayn can have so much faith in the world, and Zayn is in disbelief when Harry expresses how much validation he actually needs from others. They barely watch the TV, for hours upon hours, as every topic of discussion turns into an argument.

But worst of all, and most unbelievably, Harry loved the Rachel and Joey arc on "Friends," while Zayn (and, as he claimed, the rest of the English speaking world) absolutely hated it.

"I still say Joey never got the credit he deserved. I think he could've been good for Rachel. And all this does is remind me that I need the 'Friends' series on DVD. Why are we even talking about this?"

"Whatever dude, you're fucking crazy. Ross and Rachel were meant to be together. The writers just wanted to have Jennifer Aniston make out with every actor on the planet, because she was everyone's favorite. The storyline was ridiculous."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're such a child."

"You almost kicked my ass this morning because I tried to bring you water! You literally threw a tantrum like a child!"

They laugh together, clutching their sides, as the sun starts to set behind the orange tree just outside the windows. Harry wipes his eyes on his shirt. Zayn is still chuckling as he goes to push his hair out of his eyes, when his hand touches the bandage on his forehead. He hisses.

"You okay? I can take the bandage off and clean it again, if you want. Air it out some."

Zayn looks down at his hands, picks off the small amount of polish left on this nails. "I guess I didn't even ask you what happened, or why I have cuts on my hands and knees as well. Did you happen to see? Or did I show up home like this?"

Harry hesitates. No one generally likes to hear about how much of a dumb ass they were the night before, or get a true play-by-play of their drunken actions, but the question seems important to Zayn.

"Well. I was asleep when I heard noises downstairs. I heard a bottle smash. And I saw you hit your head on the tree. Then before I could stop you, you tried crawling to your door through the broken glass." Zayn's cheeks redden at this point, looking completely stricken at the thought of pathetically crawling on the ground. Harry hurriedly goes on, saying, "Sorry about that, I should've grabbed you before that happened."

"Why would you be sorry?" Zayn says tetchily.

"I just. I feel like I should've gotten to you faster."

"That's stupid. You can't stop a drunk person from doing stupid shit."

"Still. I was right there."

"Yeah. Yeah, you were," he says as he looks up into Harry's eyes.

Harry feels it then, the shift in the air. It feels like he's in a vacuum, like the oxygen has suddenly been sucked out of the room and replaced with helium. He feels lightheaded and dizzy as Zayn looks into his eyes.

Carefully, but with intent, Zayn reaches across the space between them on the couch and grabs Harry's hand. He entwines their fingers and lightly rubs his thumb across the back of Harry's hand. Harry just stares at the motion, watching Zayn's thumb for almost a full minute, before he looks up. Zayn smiles softly at him and says the worst thing Harry's ever fucking heard.

"You're a really good friend, Harry."

The room refills with oxygen. Harry comes back down from feeling dizzy. He sinks.

Harry feels like his face should be cracking right down the center. Instead he feels his lips move up into a polite smile, but he's not sure his brain told his face to do that, because he's pretty sure his brain told his face to crack in two. He wishes he could will it into being, to remove the stupid fucking look he's wearing, and replace it with the actual emotions coursing through him.

He _should_ shut up and let the moment be, let it go, be nice and say Zayn's a good friend too. But Harry's an idiot and moves in the opposite direction, because that's what he does.

"Zayn, are you gay or straight?"

He just says it. He doesn't know why he says it, but he needs to hear it, one way or the other.

"Uh. Well. I mean, I like all sorts of people, I think. Girls. Guys." He drops Harry's hand then, and settles back to his side of the couch.

"Oh, okay. I just wondered, is all. I don't mean to be weird."

"You are weird, Harry. I've already told you that," as Zayn smiles at him then, letting him know the question was okay. Harry tries to smile back, but it doesn't quite work. His brain is still sending mixed signals to his face.

And as they settle back into the couch to actually watch "The Office" this time, instead of talking incessantly, Harry's mind is a million miles away. Because now he knows that Zayn doesn't just fuck girls, he fucks people, people he finds interesting, people he finds himself attracted to. He fucks guys. Maybe he's been in love with a guy, or introduced a guy to his family. Maybe he was with a guy last night. Maybe Harry was the second person with a dick to remove Zayn's jeans on Halloween. Maybe he's currently fucking Danny. Maybe he was attracted to Niall when he first saw him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He feels sick.

Harry thought hearing a definite answer would make him feel better. But it just makes him feel worse. Because Zayn is attracted to men, and Harry is a man, and yet Zayn said he was a good friend and dropped his hand like it was burning right through him.

If Harry could sink into the couch and disappear, he absolutely fucking would.

***

 

_Harry: What are you doing tonight?_

_Niall: I don't know, didn't have anything planned yet. Why? What are you thinking?_

_Harry: I want to get fucking obliterated. Let's go out._

_Niall: Where?_

_Harry: Doesn't matter._

_Niall: West Hollywood? Drinks and dancing? Strippers on Sunset Strip? :) :) :)_

_Harry: No, somewhere close so I can walk home._

_Niall: Done. Be there soon._

***

 

In the days after Harry found out about Zayn's fluid sexuality, he forced himself to be a functioning member of society. He refused to get into his bed and not be able to get out of it. So he spent Sunday reading three books he's been meaning to start. He spent the week going to work, coming home and reading, eating nutritious food, taking his vitamins, and watering Jem because he's not an imbecile who can't do something as simple as keep a plant alive. He also ran rather quickly through the courtyard each day, so as to make it harder for Zayn to spot him.

He did it, he made it through, all the way to Thursday, and he was fucking proud of himself.

So texting Niall about wanting to get obliterated on a night before a Friday off work is just fine, thank you. It doesn't mean anything other than what it is, and holds no deeper meaning beyond the fact that he is a young man who wants to go out with his friend and drink alcohol. Because he's allowed to do that, as a legal, tax paying citizen.

That is how he finds himself alongside Niall in a bar in the valley, only a few blocks from home, grinding with a guy on the dance floor. His name is Chris, he's twenty one, and he looks at Harry like he's a masterpiece. He's a tad taller than Harry. He has big hands, a strong build, and dark brown hair that Harry keeps reaching up for and running his fingers through.

Niall dances beside him with a girl they know from various press junkets. Whenever Niall looks over at him and they lock eyes, they smile. They haven't gone out in a long time, and Niall barely knows what Harry looks like when he's on the prowl. Niall hasn't really seen Harry fucking Styles in action, not like this.

That was about to change.

Chris pulls Harry against his chest as a new song comes on. Harry is pretty drunk and already half hard in his jeans, so he pushes back and moves his ass in circles against Chris' growing erection. He feels Chris move his hands up and down his torso, squeezing slightly, moving them together to the beat. Harry throws his head back as they rock back and forth, letting the tequila do more of its magic. Chris leans down and kisses his neck, runs his tongue up towards his ear, bites his earlobe. Harry groans and pushes his ass further against him.

"Can I fuck you? I really want to fuck you," he growls, nipping at Harry's ear again.

"Yeah. Yeah, you can fuck me."

"Where?"

"Here."

"Let's go somewhere. Do you live close by? Let's go."

"No, here." Harry turns around to look up at Chris, with insistent eyes. "I wanna do it here."

Chris furrows his brows as the music seems to pump louder around them. He leans down to speak directly into Harry's ear, as people push into them. "What, like in the bathroom?"

Harry grabs his hand. "Yeah, let's go."

"No, let's go to your place. It's gross here."

Now Harry just feels angry. He wants to push Chris and yell at him, yell that he _can't_ go home, that he can't take Chris there, because Zayn is there. He wants to tell him that Zayn lives behind the door with the 3 and he lives behind the door with the 10, so he just can't. But even thinking about Zayn right now is exhausting and now Harry just feels spent. So he drops his hand and gazes at Chris with an apologetic look and walks away.

He makes his way towards the door, searching for Niall. When he sees him near the bar, they lock eyes and Niall's at his side in seconds.

"Do you want to leave? We can leave."

"No, Ni. You should stay, you're having fun. I just drank too much and feel sick, I'm going to go crash."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm good. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Be safe, yeah? Text me when you get home."

Harry pats his shoulder and stumbles outside.

***

 

If Harry's completely honest, he stumbles the entire walk home. He stumbles through the gate and halfway up the stairs when he hears more stumbling behind him. Confused, he puts his arms out in front of him onto the middle stair and turns around, forcing his wobbling legs into a seated position.

He sees it's Zayn stumbling, wobbling through the gate right after him. He's wearing dark jeans, a black tank top, and a worn leather jacket. He has a cigarette behind his ear and looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days. Looking at how fucking perfect he is, Harry has the sudden urge to puke. Or cry. Or puke while he cries.

Slowly Zayn looks up and spots him.

"Haz! What're you doing there? Why are you sitting on the stairs?" Zayn slurs slightly, walking slowly over to him.

Harry wants to be angry and tell Zayn that he's a fucking idiot, that he didn't _choose_ to sit on the stairs, he just _happens_ to be sitting on the stairs. He just ended up there, is all. But he does the opposite. Because of course he does. Because he doesn't want to just be angry with Zayn, he wants to wreck Zayn, from the inside out, just like Zayn's wrecked him.

"Zayn. Zayn, Zayn, Zayn. You look good," he says as he slowly smiles, smiles as if the devil himself taught him how. "Where were you?"

Zayn gets a knowing look on his face, like he knows what Harry is up to. He looks like he's about to walk away, but he doesn't. He doesn't back down, so Harry doesn't either.

"Tell me. Where were you?"

"I was at a friend's place. Cab just dropped me off. Where were you?" Zayn says as he steps closer to the stairs.

"Bar with Niall. Just down the street on Ventura. It was fun."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But the guy I was dancing with, he left me and didn't want to come home with me, so." Harry looks at Zayn, removing the smile from his face, and instead plasters on the classic puppy dog look he gives people when he needs something.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You tired?"

"No. Are you?"

Zayn steps closer. "No. You want to come in and have another beer with me? I have a ton of it."

"Yeah." So Harry gets up and stumbles down the few stairs he managed to climb and walks with Zayn to the door with the brass 3.

Once they're inside and kick their shoes off, Zayn makes his way into the kitchen. Harry actually surprises himself when he remembers to text Niall that he isn't dead in a ditch somewhere and actually made it home. He hits send, tosses his phone onto the couch and follows Zayn.

He walks in and sees Zayn bent at the waist, arm in the fridge, retrieving the shitty beer Harry knows he drinks. Harry tilts his head to the side and allows himself to admire the view.

Because fuck it all, that's why. He wants to test just how much Zayn _doesn't want him_.

Harry sidles up behind him as he shuts the fridge. He's still slightly bent over, about to turn back around, but stills when Harry's fingers land on his hips. Harry feels him straighten up and go rigid under his hands. Harry pulls Zayn back into him and breathes in his scent. He smells like cigarettes and whiskey, like the cologne he wears when he has an audition, like soap and weed.

Zayn turns around, still holding the two bottles in his hands and looks into Harry's eyes. They stare at each other for a few seconds, neither knowing what to do or what to say.

Harry never met an awkward moment he didn't want to swat away like a fly, so he speaks first.

"You have a freckle. Next to your iris. Did you know?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Harry takes the beers from his hands and sets them on the counter. Then he puts his hands back on Zayn's waist and looks at him some more, soaks it in, breathes the air between them, as he pushes him towards the wall by the fridge. They continue staring as Zayn's back hits the wall, as he reaches up to grab the cigarette behind his ear, flicking it away, where it tumbles into the sink.

And just like Zayn touched first, he's also the one to kiss first.

He leans in to Harry and finally touches his lips to his. Harry's knees almost buckle when he thinks of the dream he had of Zayn, of their kiss and how they were standing up just like this, rocking against each other, how sweet it started, and how much he loved it.

But this isn't like the dream. It's different. It's better.

Because Zayn isn't sweet with Harry. He doesn't start slow, or question himself, or slowly run his tongue along Harry's bottom lip. No, it's not like that at all.

Zayn immediately uses his lips to open Harry's mouth and shoves his tongue in. He grabs Harry's face and shifts so their mouths slot together perfectly. He hungrily licks into Harry's mouth, and it's dirty, and hot, and so much better than Harry could ever even fucking imagine.

Harry grips his hip tighter with one hand, more insistent, while the other grabs at the hem of his shirt and pulls at it. He wants it off, he wants all of it off. Zayn pulls away, almost hitting his head against the wall, as he looks Harry dead in the eye, panting, lips red. He shoves Harry back, hard, and Harry almost trips over his feet. He's about to question it, see what's wrong, grab for him. But he doesn't have to because Zayn gets closer to him and shoves him again. He shoves him until Harry stumbles back towards the kitchen door, shoves him again and again, until they're back in the main room standing next to his bed.

Zayn moves swiftly and grabs at Harry's shirt, tugging it over his head. He throws his leather jacket off and towards the couch, his own shirt following it. They stare at each other for only a moment before gravity, or magnetism, or whatever the fuck is between them, takes over and they're back to kissing, hands in each others' hair, feet knocking together. Harry feels dizzy, like the alcohol and endorphins are fighting in his brain, battling it out.

Zayn grabs at the back of his head, tugs on his hair, their mouths separate. Harry looks at him. And it's then that he realizes that Zayn isn't tugging his hair back, he's tugging it _down_. Harry sinks to his knees so fast, he looks like a pathetic puppet with cut strings.

Zayn's hand still hasn't left Harry's hair, and Harry can't do anything but breathe. He's practically hyperventilating with how much he wants this. His cock aches in his jeans, totally untouched. Zayn just looks down at him.

"You want it?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me what you want."

Harry almost groans at the tone of Zayn's voice, almost crows at the look in Zayn's blown wide eyes.

"I want it, Zayn. I want to taste you. Can I?"

"Yeah."

With his one hand still in Harry's hair, he uses the other to undo his belt.

It should go down in history that the rattling of Zayn's belt is one of the most addicting fucking sounds Harry has ever been blessed to hear. It sounds like music announcing a queen, like there should be doves accompanying it. Harry wants it as his ringtone. He shakes his head, he has to focus.

"Tell me how bad you want it."

"I want it, Zayn. I want it," he says in a hushed whisper.

"Go on then." He removes his hand from Harry's hair, takes his hand away from his jeans, even though his belt and zipper are only halfway down, and looks down at him. Harry feels like the school bell just rang, alerting him recess is almost over, reminding him that his time for fun is running out. It's almost comical how fast and jumbled his hands move towards Zayn's body.

He pulls the zipper down all the way and tugs at his jeans until they're down to his mid thigh. Zayn is wearing black briefs like he did on Halloween, but this time his cock is hard and there's a definite wet spot. Harry practically throws himself at it, shoving his face at his briefs, inhaling a massive breath, before huffing out onto Zayn's cock through the fabric, mouth around it. Zayn's breath hitches and Harry can tell his stance isn't as steady anymore.

Harry hooks his fingers into the briefs and pulls them down to meet his jeans. He looks at Zayn's hard, beautifully cut dick and he almost weeps at how long he's waited for this moment. Zayn's hand is back in his hair, pulling him closer, needing Harry to get a move on. He shakes his head again, still trying to focus, grabbing him around the base.

Harry makes the most obscene groan when his tongue finally touches the head of Zayn's cock, licking at the precome collecting there. He flicks his tongue against the underside of the head, moving along the vein towards his hand and back up again, and he wants to taste it for the rest of his life. Zayn's fingers tighten in his hair, but he's not making noise yet. Harry almost laughs because he knows he'll get there eventually, they always do.

He takes Zayn in his mouth fully then, and sucks hard, moving down about half way. He comes back up, swirls his tongue around the head, and goes back down. He repeats this, going down further each time, until his lips meet his hand at the base. His eyes are starting to water and breathing out of his nose is getting trickier the faster he goes, but he wills his throat to relax. He wants this to be good for Zayn.

Harry looks up as he bobs up and down, wanting to see Zayn's face. He looks amazing, even with a sweaty brow and crumpled expression, biting his bottom lip. He's starting to breathe heavier and heavier, and Harry's own cock, still stuffed in his jeans, is begging to be touched. He ignores it and instead sucks harder, opening his throat. Zayn senses it and pushes forward slightly, angling himself further into Harry's mouth.

So Harry comes off his cock with a soft popping sound, and sits back onto his heels for a second, looking up at him. Zayn looks puzzled for a moment, wondering what he should do now, when Harry takes his hand off his cock and slowly puts his hands behind his back, linking his fingers. He puts every emotion he has into the look he gives Zayn, hoping his eyes send the message. Zayn almost falls over he grabs for him so fast.

Zayn grabs the sides of Harry's head and pushes his cock back into his mouth, rougher than anything else he's done tonight. Now he's loud. Now he's making noise, muttering _fuck_ over and over, a sweet, _ah ah ah_ sound, the new and better sound that makes Harry change his mind. _That's_ what he wants as his fucking ringtone, as he fucks Harry's mouth. Harry's arms are aching just as much as his cock now, but he doesn't care.

"I'm gonna come, Harry, I'm gonna come," he says in a breathy rush.

Harry just looks up into his eyes and moves his tongue back and forth on the underside of Zayn's cock, willing him on.

"Fuck, Harry. I'm gonna come in your mouth, yeah? I'm gonna come," he says over and over, like he can't stop himself.

Harry feels him grab his head tighter as he loses it, as he breathes hard and shoots string after string of come down Harry's throat. Harry just takes it, swallows it all, moaning around it like he can't stop. He knows Zayn must be feeling overly sensitive as he comes down from his high, but Harry can't just let him out of his mouth yet. So he sucks hard as he finally moves off him, Zayn hissing slightly, looking down at Harry's sweaty face.

But now Harry can't stop his movements, can't stop his body. He flings his arms from behind his back to get at his fly, to finally release his poor cock and get relief. He feels like he's about to combust, like he's about to literally catch fire, he's so hot and needy. He's hunched over as he undoes the button, throws the zipper down as fast as he can, and pulls his cock out from his briefs. He actually lets out a sigh of relief, it's so good.

"I want to see, let me see."

Harry looks up and sees Zayn staring at him, pupils still blown. So he straightens slightly, moves his other arm out of the way so Zayn can watch him jerk himself off.

"You gonna come for me, Haz? I wanna see. I wanna see it."

"Yeah," he grunts.

Harry barely lasts, only another minute or so of swiftly tugging himself off, before he's unraveling and coming over his fingers. The sounds he makes are shameless, relentless. As he's coming down, he feels like he might pass out.

It's in that moment when they finally realize what's happened, as they lock eyes, Harry still kneeling on the floor, Zayn standing above him, both of their dicks still out. They stare at each other. They just stare.

Harry looks away first, to grab his shirt from the floor and cleans his hand off, before tossing it away. When he looks up again, Zayn has moved to the bed and is now laying down on it, face first, jeans still on, on top of the blankets. Harry doesn't know what the protocol is, if he's allowed to sleep here, or if he should go upstairs. Maybe the couch?

"You're thinking too fucking loudly, Harry. Just get up here."

Harry smiles to himself and quickly scrambles up onto the bed.

When he settles and gets the pillow into a good position, he looks over to Zayn. But he's already turned away from him, facing the bathroom door, quietly dozing. Harry wants to do what he wanted to do the morning after Halloween, curl over his body, brush his hair away from his face, touch his back. But he doesn't know if he's allowed to, so he just lays there next to Zayn and listens to his slow breathing.

 

***

 

He must have eventually fallen asleep.

Because when he wakes up, Zayn hasn't made breakfast, he hasn't laid water or aspirin out for him, hasn't left a note. He's just gone.

So Harry finds his phone, gathers his clothes, and trudges up the stairs to his apartment.

He passes out again almost as soon as his face hits the pillow.


	4. Chapter 4

For whatever reason, and it's always been a mystery to him and those around him, the worse Harry feels about something, the more self destructive he becomes. It started with Matthew Lieberman and his goddamn mouth, when it sent him into the downward spiral that left him in his bed for a week that first time. Because the more time he spent there, the more time he wallowed in it. He's behaved that way ever since, whenever something really upsetting happens.

If he gets angry, he'll make himself angrier. If he gets sad, he'll make himself sadder. If he misses a flight, instead of bucking up and waiting around for the next one, he'll get drunk in the airport bar because he's angry with himself and miss another. If he says something stupid or hurts someone's feelings, he beats himself up over it and says something stupid or mean to someone else, just to spite himself, to make himself feel pain, feel worse.  
  
It can't be overstated enough, Harry's penchant for opposites, because if there's a certain way to make yourself feel whole again, a remedy to fix yourself after a bad day, Harry will do the opposite, will say _fuck it_ and kick it to the curb.  
  
So you have to understand that it truly _was_ a miracle that Harry spent the week before that morning being positive, getting up and out into the world.  
  
Because rest assured, Harry won't want to continue the trend now, after having had Zayn in his mouth, in his brain, in his fucking soul. Harry won't be positive, or nice, or sweet, not after Zayn Malik left him in his bed, because he knows himself and he knows he can't.

  
  
***

  
When Harry wakes for the second time that morning, now in his own bed, he stares at the ceiling and wonders how it all even happened. It felt like one minute he was in the bar with that guy, whatever his name was, dancing and swaying, and then the next he was on his knees, melting under Zayn's intense gaze. If he didn't have marks on his knees, a sore throat, and a headache to match, he probably would've thought he imagined the entire thing.  
  
Harry forces himself to think, to remember why he acted the way he did. Zayn may have been the one to touch first, to kiss first, but Harry has always been the one to push first. He's the one who talked to him first, asked for a favor first, flirted first, insisted first. He pushed himself into the situation he's currently in, forced himself to be Harry fucking Styles against his better judgement. He's the one who drunkenly sat on the stairs below his front door and made the conscious decision to wreck Zayn, the pure and utter want, the want to punish him for only seeing him as his friend. He wanted to wreck him and mean it.  
  
Harry was the one to charm first, to smile first, to need first. He can't blame Zayn for seeking the hot mouth in front of him after a night out, a mouth so willing and ready to be ruined. Harry literally begged for it. He wanted to see Zayn's face when he couldn't contain his lust, he reveled as he saw the change in Zayn's attitude, that switch from Nice Zayn to Forceful Zayn. He practically pleaded for Zayn to manhandle him back, to push him, to pull him.  
  
It's about that time in his thought process, that inevitable time when he shuts down entirely. He stops thinking about the night before, about how he finally propelled himself into Zayn's space, once and for all. He feels ashamed and wants to be rid of it. So he's just about to turn over and sleep for a month, when his phone goes off. Every instinct he has tells him to ignore it, but he looks anyways.  
  
_Niall: You good this morning?_  
  
_Harry: No._  
  
_Niall: Are you sick or hungover? Drink Gatorade._  
  
_Harry: No._  
  
_Niall: I'll be there in twenty minutes._  
  
Normally Harry would tell him no, tell him he's fine, force Niall to leave him alone. He's a depressed person. Depressed people just need to be left alone sometimes, to forget their thoughts and be sad for a bit. Because seriously, Harry can't be positive, or nice, or sweet right now. It sounds completely exhausting.  
  
But.  
  
Maybe he can be different this time. Maybe he can let Niall in before it gets bad. Maybe it doesn't have to be what it usually is. Maybe he can just be sad like a normal human being and try to get over it before it gets worse, eat ice cream in bed with his best friend and talk it out, instead of shutting down. Maybe he can view this as not the end of the world, but instead just another morning after, a morning after a stupid hook up with a friend.  
  
Fuck it, at any rate, Niall is already on his way over, so.  
  
Harry gets up and unlocks the door.

  
  
***

  
As it turns out, Niall Horan is an actual mind reader. Because when he shows up, flying through the door in a swirl of fresh smelling air and cigarette smoke, he does in fact have ice cream. He also has Gatorade, In-N-Out burgers and fries, gummy bears, and various DVDs.  
  
"See, that's the best part about living in the valley, Haz," as he comes back from the kitchen after putting the ice cream in the freezer. "It's all right there next to each other. I bought all this shit, even the DVDs, at a gas station! And then next door was the In-N-Out, so I grabbed food from there too! Move over," he says as he shoves Harry over on his bed, closer to the windows.  
  
Wordlessly, Niall hands Harry the Gatorade, with a look that says, _drink this or I'll smack you_. So Harry does, he chugs half of it in one go.  
  
Niall doesn't say much as he hands Harry his half of the food, as he maneuvers and sets out the spread in front of them. He knows to give Harry a minute, a second to process the fact that Harry let him in before he sunk too low. This is a new experience for the two of them. Niall knows.  
  
They eat while the TV plays softly in the background, until they both are rubbing their stomachs, right on the cusp of feeling too full, too sick. But for Harry, it actually feels nice to be able to point to a tangible, physical ailment at a time like this. He settles against the headboard of the bed, as Niall cleans up.  
  
"So. Haz. Let's talk," Niall says as he takes off his jeans and tshirt, knowing he needs to settle in for the long haul, sitting back down next to him in just his boxers. He turns the TV off and leans against the headboard with Harry's arm against his.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"What's on your mind? Let's talk about it now so we don't have to talk about it later, yeah?" The look he gives Harry feels heavy, like it's sitting on his chest.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Niall gives him another minute, some time to process yet again. Harry almost wants to reach out and hug him, just for that alone.  
  
But instead, he quietly and meticulously tells Niall the entire story. He retells the part Niall already knows, about the day they first saw each other. He tells him about their conversations, how Zayn watered Jem, Halloween, the eyeliner, the aftermath when Harry helped him. He tells Niall about Zayn's iris freckle, about how Zayn does acting exercises to know his own face, how he lines his shoes up perfectly by his door, how he smells, how he makes Harry feel. He doesn't leave anything out, until he gets up to last night. He explains how he came home, saw Zayn stumbling, and went into his apartment for a drink. Then he stops and just lets Niall stare at him.  
  
"Haz, did you sleep with him? Did something bad happen last night with him?"  
  
"We didn't… technically sleep together, not fully. But something happened, yeah." He looks down at his hands in his lap.  
  
"Harry, did he hurt you?"  
  
Suddenly Harry realizes what Niall must be thinking, that Zayn forced himself on him, that Zayn is a bad person. Sure, Zayn left him this morning without so much as a fucking note or a text, but he wasn't awful. Harry was the awful one.  
  
"God, no. Ni, he didn't hurt me. It's not like that."  
  
"Then what is it like? Why did I get the overwhelming feeling that you needed me this morning?"  
  
"I always need you."  
  
"This is different, Haz. Tell me."  
  
"I woke up and he was gone. He left me. He told me I was a good friend, but I didn't give a shit. I wanted him, so I got him. And he left me this morning, and I'm really just pissed at myself."  
  
Niall turns his entire body to Harry now, and grabs his hands. "Harry, he's a fucking prick if he left you like that. Fuck that, even if he said he just wanted to be friends, if he hooks up with you anyways, he still could've been a decent fucking person this morning and not left you alone."  
  
Harry just shrugs, because he knows Niall is right, that no matter what the circumstances are, the decent thing to do even after a drunken hook up would be to acknowledge the person next to you, to be kind. And if Harry was such a good friend, Zayn should've known that.  
  
"Thanks. Thanks for all of this, for coming over even when I didn't ask," Harry says as he grips Niall's hands tightly. "In case I don't say it enough, you're my best friend."  
  
"You're such a sap. Such a twat. Come here," he says as he pulls Harry close, tucking him under his arm. "You're going to be fine. Hate to say it, bud, but this happens all the time. Sometimes friends hook up and it's stupid, because one friend might have feelings when the other doesn't. But it'll all work out, you'll move on. You're going to be just fine."  
  
He looks down at Harry and smiles. Harry gives him a small smile back.  
  
"See, Haz? You're already on the mend, look at you. You're not falling into any hole, see? I got here just in time."  
  
They hug tighter.  
  
They lay like that for a while, wrapped in each others' arms, legs tangled under the blankets. Niall drops off to sleep, his chest rising and falling slowly. It's as Harry starts to drift off that he thinks it's probably going to be the best nap he'll ever take. But the very last thought before sleep takes over is simply, _I am going to be fine_. He thinks about how he didn't spiral out of control, he didn't fall into an abyss he won't be able to crawl out of on his own. Maybe when he wakes up he really can be positive, or nice, or sweet.  
  
He tucks his face into Niall's chest and squeezes him harder.

 

  
***

  
There's a loud knock coming from Harry's front door, which causes Niall and Harry to both jolt awake and knock their heads together.  
  
"Jesus Christ," Niall practically yells, as he rubs his forehead. "Is the goddamn army at the door? Shit."  
  
The knocking continues.  
  
Harry, also rubbing his forehead, has the briefest thought that maybe it's not Zayn, maybe his mom sent him a package, or the Mormons have come to try and get him to go into the light, or whatever Mormons believe. He thinks if it were Mormons, he'd be so fucking grateful, he'd probably let them in and listen to their whole speech, take their pamphlets, buy their books. Maybe he'd like to be a Mormon, who knows.  
  
But above all else, Harry prays it isn't Zayn, so he doesn't have to deal with the awkwardness, the pounding of his heart, the paleness of his face, in front of Zayn. He can't handle it. What if he starts crying? Harry's afraid his total lack of poker face is going to give him away, give away all his secrets.  
  
Luckily, Niall Horan is still here and he doesn't give a shit.  
  
Niall gets up and walks to the door, still in just his boxers, and throws it open.  
  
"Oh, hello!"  
  
"Hey, uh… Niall, right?" Zayn says from the other side of the screen, just out of Harry's view from the bed in the corner. Fuck.  
  
"Yeah, that's me. What can I do you for, sir?" Niall says easy as ever, as if this entire morning hadn't happened. His entire stance is easy, breezy, cool. He's leaning against the door, one hand on his pale hip, looking out through the screen.  
  
It hits Harry suddenly, what Niall is doing. If Niall had answered the door with his chest puffed out, angry, and seething, he would've given away the fact that Harry was upset, was pissed, was sad over Zayn and what happened the night before. But Niall seems fine, which means Harry has been fine the whole time.

Harry's fine.  
  
"I just… Uh, I wondered if Harry was home. I had an early audition and… didn't get to see him this morning."  
  
Zayn had an audition. Zayn had a job, and went to that job, and Harry almost cried in his bed like a fucking child.  
  
Niall nods, smiles. He was still giving him his out. So he had to take it. He bounded out of the bed and was at the door in what felt like two steps.  
  
"Hey Zayn, what's going on, man?" he says with a smile on his face, arm reaching for the door behind Niall, to steady himself. They must've looked like quite the pair, standing close together in their underwear, sleep in their eyes. Harry hopes Zayn hates it.  
  
"Hey Haz. I… I had an audition, and just wanted to say hi, I guess." He flicks his eyes to Niall, not knowing if Niall knows what happened between them, if it's safe to acknowledge their situation. And because Niall is bound for Sainthood, he smiles at each of them.  
  
"Well I have to take a piss, so you two go ahead and talk about the fact that you hooked up last night. Fucking idiots," he says as he waltzes away. "This is why friends should never fuck. Makes the next day super weird for the rest of us."

It's not until Niall is almost to the bathroom that he turns and gives Harry a wink Zayn can't see. Harry smiles back at him, grateful.  
  
With Niall gone, Harry opens the screen door and lets Zayn in.

Harry says quietly, "So that happened."  
  
"Yeah it did. It was… definitely not expected, I'll say that." He looks down. "And seriously, sorry I had to leave this morning. I just totally forgot my agent set up an audition with a few casting directors. I hope you're not mad at me," he says with a slight wince, eyeing Harry carefully.  
  
"Dude, why would I be mad? I was drunk last night, I sucked your dick, no big deal. Besides, it made it easy for me to just come up here and sleep in my own bed, without a weird conversation. Your bed is awful, by the way," he says with a smile.  
  
Zayn seems perplexed. Harry clearly has him stumped. He must have anticipated anger, tears, maybe even aggression. Zayn has seen him depressed, has seen his lowest. He must have thought Harry would be low now, would be in bed. Harry thinks Zayn really must know him after all.  
  
"No, of course. You're right. No big deal. And fuck you, my bed is like a cloud," Zayn says as he crosses his arms.  
  
"You're like a cloud."  
  
"You're such a child."  
  
They smile together, back to their annoying banter. The toilet flushes behind Harry and he hears Niall purposefully moving around noisily in the bathroom, opening drawers, banging around.  
  
"Well Zayn, while this conversation has been fun, I really should get back to Niall. He had a rough night last night, needed to talk about some stuff, so…" Harry says, with an air of finality. He almost pats himself on the back, the ease with which he can lie through his teeth.  
  
"Totally, gotcha. I'll see you soon then, yeah? We're good?"  
  
"So long as I stay away from tequila, I'm always good," he smiles. And then, "Yeah Zayn, we're good."  
  
That's what Harry tells Niall later that night, as they eat ice cream in bed, that he told Zayn they were good. Niall is still pissed that Zayn left Harry without a note or text, audition or not. Niall still has a fire in his eyes that says _he should've known better_ , but Harry lets it go. Harry knows he has to let it go, this idea that him and Zayn are supposed to be together. Zayn doesn't owe him anything.  
  
Harry just wants them to be good.  
  
He wants, he wants, he wants.

  
  
***

  
Technically they _are_ good.

At least, they aren't bad.

They don't act weird, or become awkward around each other. They don't acknowledge the fact that when backed into a corner, when pressed up against, Zayn becomes dominant, forceful, talkative. They don't discuss how needy Harry looks on his knees, how he'll let you mold him and fold him into whatever you want him to be in that moment. None of this happens because they simply don't talk.  
  
Sure, they still wave and exchange pleasantries when they cross paths in the courtyard. Harry got a piece of Zayn's mail once, so he returned it and they chatted at Zayn's door.  
  
But when Harry goes home for Thanksgiving, he gives Niall a permanent extra key to his door, to water Jem while he stays in the area with his family. They also know it's probably best for Niall to have a spare key on hand, in case another "family emergency" comes up. Harry's a realist, and honestly, you never know.  
  
December is the same. Harry works like crazy, throws himself into writing pieces at his desk until his eyes burn from exhaustion. He vows to go out with Niall more before he goes home again for Christmas, so they drink at bars in Santa Monica, eat tacos in Venice, party downtown, any night they both have free.  
  
The night before Harry is leaving for two weeks for Christmas, he hears a noise in the courtyard just after 3 in the morning. He chances a peek through the curtain and sees Zayn, stumbling in the front gate, holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his leather jacket in the other. He can barely walk, but instead of heading towards his own door, he heads for the stairs. A drunk Zayn Malik trying to handle a flight of stairs is the last thing the world needs, so Harry sighs, puts on shorts and heads out.  
  
Just as Zayn puts his wobbly foot on the first step, Harry comes walking down them. Zayn looks up then, and smiles so big and so bright, Harry remembers the last time that smile happened near these stairs and how he almost had to grab the railing.  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"Hey Zayn, let's go home, yeah?" he says, as he continues down to meet him.  
  
"Yeah Hazza, let's go home. It's real late, huh." He sways, one foot still on the bottom step, the whiskey sloshing in the bottle. Harry tries to grab for it, but Zayn angles it away. "I'm good, Haz. Let's just go home, yeah?"  
  
Harry looks at him, not liking this Zayn, the Zayn who can't let a bottle go, even just for Harry. So he reaches for his other arm instead, the one holding his jacket, to curl his fingers around his bicep. "Yeah Zayn, let's go home."  
  
He tightens his hold on Zayn's arm and pulls him close, walking them both to the door with the brass 3. This time, Zayn pulls his keys out of his pocket on his own, but he can't find the right one, so Harry delicately takes them and opens the door. Once they're inside, Zayn walks the few steps to his bed and falls onto his back, eyes closed. He's still holding the whiskey and his jacket, now with his arms crossed, keeping them both close to his chest.  
  
Harry removes Zayn's boots and sets them neatly by the door with his other shoes. He gingerly takes the bottle and jacket out of his arms and sets them off to the side. He wonders if he should take his jeans off, get him comfortable, when Zayn speaks.  
  
"Why don't we hang out anymore, Hazza? I haven't seen you in forever." His eyes are still closed.  
  
"Just been busy, I guess. We'll hang out when I get back, okay?"  
  
"Where y'going?"  
  
"Home. The holidays."  
  
"Oh, okay."  
  
"Do you want me to help you get into bed properly? I can," he says as he moves towards Zayn's limp body.  
  
"Let's hang out now, Haz. Let's hang out," Zayn says as he opens his mouth and smiles slightly, looking up into Harry's eyes.  
  
"Aren't you tired?"  
  
"Uh, _no_. I'm awake, aren't I?" He gets a wicked smile on his face and says, "Wanna put makeup on me, Haz? Want to smudge my eyes up with your pinky like last time?" Zayn smiles so hard, Harry's afraid he's going to choke on his breath.  
  
Harry gives a weak smile back and simply says, "How about next time." He finally reaches for Zayn's jeans, undoes his belt, the button, the zipper, and slides them off, while Zayn closes his eyes again. He reaches for his tshirt and that comes off too, leaving Zayn in his briefs. Harry senses the deja vu.  
  
Harry puts a glass of water and aspirin next to the bed. Then he tugs the covers out from under Zayn's back and tucks him in. Zayn makes the sweetest little sigh as he turns his head towards the windows and tucks his arm under the pillow.  
  
"'Night Zayn, see you soon."  
  
Zayn's already asleep so Harry lets himself out.  
  
When he gets back upstairs, he remembers to text Niall to remind him to water Jem.

  
  
***

  
Harry's already home and sitting on the couch with Gemma, watching "It's a Wonderful Life" when the first text comes through.  
  
_Zayn: hey, so sorry about last night, all i remember is walking thru the gate and then you helping me inside. rough night i guess!_  
  
_Harry: No problem. I got you._  
  
_Zayn: did i say anything ridiculous? god i hope not. was i nice at least?_  
  
_Harry: Nothing ridiculous, and very polite._  
  
_Zayn: aha good. what r u doing tonight, want to go eat a late dinner?_  
  
_Harry: I'm already back in Iowa, sorry. But when I get back in a few weeks, we'll hang out again._  
  
_Zayn: ok, have a good break, h!_  
  
_Harry: You too!_

  
  
***

  
Harry again spends his time back home resolutely not thinking about Zayn. Because thinking about Zayn makes his head hurt, his heart hurt, his brain to short circuit. So he doesn't. Mostly.  
  
He texts Niall every day, to let him know how good it's been, he shops with his mom, he lets Gemma buy him new clothes "appropriate for the Midwest, Jesus Christ." He even goes out a few times with old friends from college. It's within that group that Harry feels the most crazy and uninhibited. It's the group of people he spent the most time with while finally being himself. After being celibate and sexually boring in high school, college was where he flourished. It was encouraged to fuck around within the group, so he did.  
  
Harry has sex with Trey twice. The first time is after everyone drank themselves stupid at their favorite bar, in Trey's basement, against the couch like they're undergrads again. Trey bends him over the back of it, barely giving Harry time to adjust, in his drunken haze. But it's hot and rough, and even though Harry feels a tightness in his stomach, he pretends it's just the liquor. It definitely has nothing to do with Zayn or wishing that Zayn was the one holding him down. Harry comes quickly.  
  
The second time they're not drunk, thankfully, and they do it in Harry's old bedroom while his mom and Gemma see a movie. Trey, in all his tall, chiseled glory, with his hairy chest and wavy blond hair, pulls Harry onto him, has Harry sink slowly onto his cock. Harry holds onto his shoulders and breathes into his ear, riding him so he can really feel it. Trey whispers in his ear that he missed him, that he's so fucking good, that he's needed this, that Harry is gorgeous. Harry soaks it all in like a sponge, savors the words, kisses them out of Trey's mouth. He needs to hear it all, that he's wanted, that he's alive, that he's important, even just for these few heated moments. And this time when he comes, it's with his head thrown back and his cock untouched.  
  
It's not until he's coming down from it, as his breath starts to level, that he realizes it. He called out Zayn's name by accident.  
  
Trey just frowns.

  
  
***

  
  
When Harry steps outside of the airport in Los Angeles, he takes a deep breath. Home will always be home, but _his home_ is now Southern California. He missed the gross air, the people, the clogged freeways. He can't wait to get back to his bed again, to talk to Jem, to see Niall.  
  
He also wants to see Zayn. Because Harry is an idiot.  
  
As he wheels his suitcase up the front walkway towards the gate, he wonders if Zayn will be there, if the door with the 3 will be closed or open, whether Zayn will be true to his word and actually want to hang out again. Luckily he doesn't have to worry long, because as he makes his way up the stairs and to his front door, he hears it.  
  
"About fucking time!"  
  
Harry abandons his key in the door and leans completely over the railing, looking down to the lower level and over one door to see Zayn leaning out of his door, neck at an odd angle, looking up at him.  
  
Harry laughs. "Hey, long time no talk."  
  
"I thought for sure you were gone forever, moving back to fuckin' Arkansas or a Dakota or something," Zayn says as he smiles.  
  
Harry comes back over the railing and continues to open his door, calling back, "You know for a fact I'm from Iowa, so shut it. Are you coming up or not?"  
  
"Yeah," Zayn yells back. "I have something for you!"  
  
If this were back when they first met, Harry would be pacing. He'd be kicking up dust, running around to clean up, freaking out over Zayn being in his space, seeing his still-empty blue wall. But now it's not like that. Harry's place is Harry's place, he's just Harry, sometimes Harry fucking Styles, but mostly just Harry the fucking idiot, so whatever Zayn is going to see, he'll see.  
  
Zayn walks in just as Harry is popping open his suitcase on his bed, with his back to him. He's grabbing clothes and shoes, throwing them to the floor. He hears Zayn set something on his desk and then walk into his kitchen. It sounds far away, but Harry hears a distinct, "W'sup Jem? How ya been, bud?" Harry smiles to himself and feels his cheeks warm, his heart ache.  
  
Harry turns around just as Zayn comes back into the room and picks up what he set on the desk.  
  
"What is that?" Harry stares at it.  
  
"A present."  
  
He's fairly certain Zayn must think he's mentally slow, because of course it's a fucking present, it's a box wrapped in red paper with a white bow on top. The look Harry gives him tells him as much, and Zayn smiles sheepishly.  
  
"But why are you giving me a present?"  
  
"For Christmas."  
  
"I didn't get you anything."  
  
"I don't celebrate Christmas."  
  
"Oh."  
  
They stare at each other. Zayn hands the rectangular gift to Harry, with a glint in his eyes. "Go on then, open it."  
  
Harry, still in disbelief, takes it from him and starts to open it carefully. He can tell Zayn is impatient, was probably one of those kids who opened presents with reckless abandon, throwing paper over his head at every birthday party, so Harry purposefully goes slower to ruffle him. When he finally gets the paper off, he turns the box over in his hand and looks at the front.  
  
It's the entire series of "Friends" in a neat black case, still wrapped in plastic. He stares at it for a moment before looking up at Zayn. Zayn can hardly contain his excitement, practically bouncing up and down on his toes.  
  
"Why did you get this for me?"  
  
Zayn's smile falters slightly, looks confused, and says, "Because you said you needed it. Remember? You said you needed the whole series."  
  
Harry looks back down at the box and runs his fingers over the six actors' faces smiling up at him. The only people who really get him gifts are his mom and Gemma. Sometimes his estranged asshole of a dad sends him a card with money. So he's never been in this situation before. He sets it down on his desk and walks to Zayn, pulling him into a hug.  
  
Zayn must need the hug too, because his arms wrap around Harry's middle just as Harry is tightening his grip around Zayn's shoulders. They hug and hug, holding tight. Harry honestly doesn't know how he's going to let go. So he doesn't and just talks through it.  
  
"Thank you. That's the nicest present anyone's ever given me," he says, muffled against his own arm.  
  
"S'not a problem, Haz. I knew you wanted it, so. Merry Late Christmas," he says near Harry's neck.  
  
"Was it expensive?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Liar," Harry says, and he feels Zayn's body shake with a laugh. "It's Blu-ray."  
  
When they each step back, everything is different. Sure, they hooked up before and they knew what each other look like when their eyes are dark with lust. But they're also friends, friends who give each other gifts, and talk to plants, and take care of each other when they can't take care of themselves.  
  
And for a while, that's that.

  
  
***

  
For a while, at least for the next two weeks, Harry and Zayn are barely apart.  
  
Some days are spent at Harry's, while they breeze through episode after episode of "Friends." They eat junk food, while Harry sits at his desk to come up with pitches for when they go back to work, Zayn lounging on the floor. They throw gummy bears to each other. They take turns watering Jem. On those days, sometimes Niall stops over, lamenting about having to go back to the office soon as well, eating junk food alongside them. (The first time, Niall gave Harry the, _are we doing okay with this?_ eye, and Harry nodded, letting him know it would all be fine.)  
  
The other days are spent at Zayn's, while Zayn paces and paces, memorizing lines for auditions, drinking beer after beer. Harry had never seen an actor memorize lines before, at least not an actor who was legitimately on TV. Zayn made notes on every page, he highlighted things in various colors. He wrote stage directions for himself, he practiced moving his face in different ways. Once he even forced Harry to listen to him read one line for over an hour, in a myriad of ways, to see how it should be said, where he should inflect. If Harry ever has to hear the words _"Mary, why can't you just accept what is and not freak out over what might be?"_ again, he'll blow his fucking brains out. They laughed about that for ages afterwards, and Zayn even started calling him Mary as a joke. Harry then joked that if Zayn called him that in public, people might think it's a hate crime, and they laughed even harder.  
  
Harry suspects it might just be the best two weeks of his life.

  
  
***

  
"Hey, so I have a favor to ask you."  
  
They're up at Harry's a few weeks later, in their signature position, Harry at his desk, Zayn on the floor. Harry perks up when Zayn speaks, looking at him expectantly. Zayn seems nervous.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"You're leaving for New York soon, right? For work?" Zayn says as he flips through script pages.  
  
"Yeah, for a week. Why?"  
  
"So my agent has set up various meetings for me with casting directors. I think it's important that I make friends with a few of them or something. They want me to start hitting hard for CBS and the CW, really try and get onto one of their new pilots for next season. Long story short, I want to really dive into their shit, their shows, what they're about, before I meet them, you know?"  
  
Harry is confused, but he nods anyway, for Zayn to continue.  
  
"So basically, I'm asking if I can watch your cable up here while you're gone. I'll water Jem. I won't make a mess, I swear." He finally looks up from his pages and looks at Harry.  
  
Harry rolls his eyes, having thought the favor was some big, epic thing. "Yes Zayn, you can watch up here, you moron. I thought it was going to be something awful."  
  
Zayn just laughs. "Thanks, Haz. You're the best."  
  
Harry pulls his laptop closer and shakes his head. "Why were you nervous to ask?"  
  
"I feel bad using your shit, especially when you're not even in the same timezone."  
  
"You could probably ask me to murder someone and I'd do it, so." Harry stares at his laptop screen as he feels his cheeks pink slightly.  
  
"Good to know," Zayn says as he throws his head back and laughs again.

  
  
***

  
The best part about going to New York for work is getting to go with Niall and their other rambunctious coworkers from the LA office. The people in the New York office are cool as hell too, but it's different. The coasts are just different and house different people, and only people who live on either of them can say that and mean it. It's pretentious, but there you have it.  
  
Between working on new designs for the site and going to meetings with various department heads, they find time to explore the city and drink until the sun comes up. Harry truly doesn't think he could ever live in New York because he's afraid he would never sleep, or eat a vegetable, or be a functioning member of society. He'd drink too much and go out all the time. Niall would flourish, of course, which Harry tells him during their third night in a row of getting smashed, and Niall just laughs into his neck. Niall could live anywhere, to be honest.  
  
Zayn texts Harry funny pictures every day, pictures of himself making faces, pictures of weird people in downtown LA. He even sends one of Jem, with Zayn's sunglasses perched somehow on his leaves, with the caption, "Me and the big guy hanging out, smoking grass." Harry tells Zayn he better not ruin his plant's life. Zayn just sends a smiley face, so Harry sends him the photo from Halloween of Zayn daintily blowing on his nails, as payback. Zayn quickly responds that he's going to kill Harry next time he sees him, but Harry reminds him that the only person who would ever help Zayn hide a dead body is Harry himself, and they laugh until they cry during their routine call that night, because they both know that it's absolutely fucking true.  
  
Harry should be back in LA on Saturday morning, and Zayn graciously offers to pick him and Niall up to bring them back to the valley.  
  
Harry likes New York, but it's not LA. They don't have orange trees in New York.

  
  
***

  
They actually get an earlier flight out of Newark, which is great. Some of their coworkers keep their original flight plans, but Niall and Harry are both ready to get home. Niall's parents don't live far outside of Los Angeles, and even though he'll never admit it, he really misses them when he's away for too long.  
  
Once they land at LAX, it's about 1 in the morning. They take a cab back to the valley, while Harry texts Zayn, hoping he's awake or out with friends, and will see that he can sleep in and not worry about being to the airport in the morning. But he doesn't get a reply, so Harry figures he'll try again in the morning. Niall has the cab drop Harry off first, because he's a great friend, and Harry definitely doesn't deserve him.  
  
Harry is exhausted as he rolls his bags through the courtyard, and slowly climbs the stairs towards his door. He wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep until Monday morning, when he's expected back in the office, ready to implement all the changes they discussed while on the trip.  
  
But something feels different as he unlocks his door. He senses the TV is on, can see the blue light through the crack in the door as he opens it, can hear it rumbling on a low volume. When he steps inside and looks around, he almost drops his bags.  
  
It's his apartment, the same as always, but different. There are different touches here.  
  
First of all, it's clean. All the dumb shit he leaves lying around is gone. His bookshelf is pristine, books all lined up and dusted off. His shoes are lined up by the door, neatly and in order by color. His desk is clear for probably the first time since he moved in. But the best and most unexpected part is the blue wall, no longer bare, but now covered with black and white photos. There's a large photo of a typewriter in the middle, flanked with frames that hold prints of famous literary quotes and book covers. There's even a small framed photo of the original _To Kill a Mockingbird_ artwork. Harry sweeps his eyes across the wall, takes in the black and white photos, in their black and white frames, standing out against the deep royal blue paint, even in the dim flickering light of the TV. He feels overwhelmed, a tear threatens to fall.  
  
It's then that he notices the movement on his bed. The fact that it took him so long to notice Zayn's sleeping form on top of his comforter, but under a thin blanket, wearing only shorts and a simple tshirt, says something about the magic of the room. Zayn is shifting in his sleep, turning his body from one side to the other, facing Harry now, facing away from the wall of windows covered by the black curtains. Harry has that urge to reach out, to stretch over him, touch his back. He wonders if the incessant urge will _ever_ go away.  
  
He's not sure if he should wake Zayn, or just let him be. The decision is made for him when Zayn moves again and sleepily opens his eyes to see Harry standing there. A normal person with normal reflexes would probably freak out, seeing a person standing over them while they sleep, no matter if the person is a friend or not. It should startle Zayn, make him jump. Hell, he should laugh or at least acknowledge that this looks pretty ridiculous. But he doesn't because Zayn is practically a sloth, and once he's in sleep mode, he basically just hovers there, in and out of it.  
  
He stretches slightly, yawns, and says, "Hey, you're home early."  
  
Harry sets his bags down, realizing he was still holding them. "Yeah, got an earlier flight."  
  
Zayn yawns again, "I swear I haven't been sleeping here this week. I just closed my eyes for a second. I just needed a nap." He closes his eyes again. "I wanted to finish it all tonight so I could pick you up tomorrow, but you're home, so. Surprise." Zayn looks like he's about to fall asleep again.  
  
"This is the best thing I've ever seen," Harry says as his gaze goes back to the wall just behind Zayn, behind the bed.  
  
"The plain blue was freaking me out. I hope it's okay I did it," Zayn says, eyes still closed, hands on his chest. "It's also supposed to be inspiration. For your novel. Because if I keep hearing about how you're going to do it, and you don't _actually_ start it, I'm going to take your laptop and beat you with it."

Harry laughs so loudly, Zayn actually startles for a second. "It's more than okay. Thank you, Zayn."  
  
Harry really almost starts to cry, can feel the tears coming. But he has to pull it together.  
  
It's as Zayn speaks again that Harry truly feels the ground move under his feet. "Can I stay here, Haz?" He repeats himself by saying, "I just needed a nap." His eyes are still closed, almost back to sleep.  
  
Harry can't even answer, fearing his voice will betray him, so he takes off his shoes, removes his jeans and shirt, and pulls back the comforter to force Zayn to crawl underneath. Once they're under the covers, Harry grabs the remote from the table and shuts off the TV, the room finally in darkness. Zayn is curled on his side, facing Harry, completely serene.  
  
Harry doesn't allow himself much with Zayn, not anymore. But he allows himself this. He reaches a hand out and runs his fingers across Zayn's cheekbones, down his jaw, along the rough hair there. He touches, he feels his face under his palm, he appreciates.  
  
And then he goes to sleep.

  
  
***

  
Harry thinks he was only asleep for maybe half a second when he's awake again. As he opens his eyes and looks around though, he can tell it's a few hours later, closer to sunrise, but still pretty dark. He still feels exhausted and for a minute, doesn't know why he's even up.  
  
But then he feels it.  
  
Zayn has his arm around Harry's middle. They're completely entwined together, laying on their sides, legs tangled, Zayn's face nestled at the base of Harry's neck. He can feel his breath blowing the curls there with every exhale. Harry looks down at Zayn's hand on his chest. He grabs it in his own, just as Zayn pulls him even closer towards his body.  
  
Harry runs his fingers up and down Zayn's forearm, scratching the skin lightly, appreciating how close they are. Zayn smells like soap and beer, but also like Harry's place, like Harry. He wonders if he ever smells like Zayn's place, like Zayn.  
  
Zayn's body must start reacting to the touches of its own accord, because Harry feels him moving behind him. He can feel him twitching, settling. Suddenly they slot together just right and Harry can feel Zayn's cock pressed perfectly against his ass. Zayn is half hard already, moving slightly up and down now, Harry's briefs rubbing against his shorts. Harry almost makes a sound, but he doesn't want to ruin it. Maybe Zayn's having a dream, maybe he's dreaming of _him_ , of _them_. He wants Zayn to have it, to enjoy it, so he stays still.  
  
But Zayn keeps moving, keeps pulling Harry tighter. Harry has to bite his bottom lip, forcing himself to not touch his hardening cock in his briefs. He can't move, he can't let Zayn lose the dream he's in. Eventually he can't take it anymore though, feeling like he's about to come all over himself, so he gently removes Zayn's arm from around his body and tries to shift away, to turn on his back, so he can quietly slip out and go to the bathroom for relief on his own. But once he's on his back, he steals a look at Zayn's face and almost howls, because Zayn's eyes are wide open and staring back.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Fuck it all, Zayn kissed him first the last time, so Harry's going to be the one to do it now. He has to.  
  
He slides closer to Zayn, facing him now, reaching for him. They meet in the middle, closing their eyes at the same time, as their lips meet. This isn't like their first kiss, full of biting heat. This is sweeter, and if you can believe it, more passionate. Harry runs his tongue along Zayn's bottom lip first, then his top, before slipping it into his mouth. Zayn's tongue runs along side his, moving and moving and moving. He lightly bites Harry's lip. It feels like Zayn sucks the sound Harry makes clean out of him, swallows it down and holds onto it for safekeeping.  
  
Harry shifts them slightly, so he's half laying on top of Zayn, one of his thighs slotted between his open legs. Harry leans down and runs his hands under Zayn's shirt, before grabbing it and pulling it off. Then he skirts his fingers across Zayn's hip bones, along the top of his shorts, before pulling those and his briefs off at the same time. Harry realizes this is the first time he's ever seen Zayn fully and completely naked, and he almost groans at the sight of Zayn laying underneath him, one arm above his head, one pulling Harry closer. Before he leans in, he awkwardly pulls off his briefs and tosses them over his shoulder. Zayn looks up at his face, and then slowly lets his gaze wander lower, across Harry's broad chest, over the tattoos there, down his stomach, to his aching cock. He grabs Harry's neck and pulls him down, back into the kiss.  
  
They're both making noise now, breathing into each others' mouths, gasping as their cocks slide together, as they rut against each other again and again. They push and pull, move forward and backward, and Zayn can't stop running his hands up and down Harry's back.  
  
Harry leans down, sucking at his neck, when Zayn says it on an exhale: "No marks."  
  
Harry just nods into his shoulder, biting lightly, running his tongue back up towards his ear, biting ever so gently at the skin there as well. He feels Zayn's entire body shiver, and then he surges and flips them over, with Zayn now hovering over him. They look each other in the eye and both come to the realization at the same time: Zayn can leave marks, because Harry doesn't need to be in front of a camera, or act in front of a room full of people. Harry's safe to be marked up. So he tilts his head to the side, offering himself. Zayn latches his mouth to his neck hungrily and sucks hard, biting the skin on his neck, his shoulder, his collarbone. Harry can't stop arching his back, throwing himself at the slight pain, trying to ease his cock by rubbing it against Zayn as hard as he can.  
  
"Fuck, Harry," Zayn whispers as his cock rubs up against Harry's again. "Fuck, I want it."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"I want to fuck you. I really want to fuck you," he says into the junction between Harry's neck and shoulder. "Do you want to? Do you want me to?"  
  
"Yes, yes I want you to. I want you," Harry babbles, over and over. He can barely think, all he can feel is his cock leaking precome. Or is it Zayn's? Maybe it's theirs.  
  
Harry throws his arm out to the bedside table and quickly opens the drawer. He feels around for a condom, before reaching down and finding the lube tucked under the mattress. He practically smacks them against Zayn's chest, urging him to hurry.  
  
Zayn sits back and even in the hazy, darkened room, Harry can see his small smile. Zayn sets the condom up by Harry's head and then flips the cap to the lube, slicking up his fingers. He shimmies down the bed some so he's right above Harry's cock. Without even a beat, without even a second for Harry to prepare himself, Zayn's mouth is on him, hot and wet, slick and hurried. Harry throws his head back so fast as his spine shoots upward, crying out, he's afraid he broke something. He distinctly feels Zayn's body rumble, as if he's chuckling to himself, so Harry smacks the side of Zayn's head lightly.  
  
But Zayn's not laughing anymore as he bobs up and down, tongue running along the underside of Harry's cock. It's then that he feels the first finger around his hole, lightly brushing back and forth, teasing him. Harry is just about to yell at him, and Zayn must sense it, because he pushes past that initial ring of muscle, pushes in to the first knuckle, as he sucks Harry hard. He works his finger in and out, relentlessly. Now Harry is really worried about his spine and whether or not he'll be able to walk after this. He can't seem to keep his back, his hips, on the bed. He's so hard, so ready for it, he almost cries out again.  
  
Zayn must have a sixth sense, because he adds a second finger then, pumping them in slowly, stretching them, while he tongues at the head of his cock. He finds Harry's prostate and rubs his fingers over it, just as Harry gasps for breath again. He's about to add a third finger when Harry smacks his head again, breathing out, "Stop. Stop. I can't, I can't."  
  
Zayn lets him slip out of his mouth and leans back, giving Harry concerned eyes.  
  
"No, no I mean, I'm ready. I can take it, just fuck me. Come on Zayn, fuck me please," as he babbles again, rocking his hips up, moving his head side to side. He feels like he's on fire, or was just doused in ice. He feels out of control and feral, and he needs it. "Fuck me," he says again, harder.  
  
It's like Zayn is physically kicked in the stomach then, because he hunches over so quickly, so hungrily, to surge forward and kiss Harry, he might have spine issues tomorrow too. He grabs the condom by Harry's head, as their tongues move together, as Harry tastes himself. He leans back to rip the condom open and quickly slides it on, just as Harry hands him the lube again, to slick himself up.  
  
Harry grabs his legs and pulls them to his chest, as Zayn hovers over him, hands on either side of his head. "Tell me when you're good, okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
So Zayn lines himself up and slowly starts to push in. Harry tries to relax, but it's hard when your body is on fire. He has his head thrown back, as he bites his lip, Zayn's cock pushing and pushing. Zayn tries to be gentle, to ease in as slow as he can, but Harry hears him mutter _fuck_ a few times, as Harry's tightness pulls him in. Once he's bottomed out, he leans down onto his forearms and kisses Harry's neck. They lay like that while Harry adjusts, gets used to the intrusion, shifts his legs, lets his lip go from his teeth.  
  
"I'm good, I'm good Zayn. Move. You can move."  
  
"Fuck, okay. Okay I'm going to move, okay? Okay."  
  
Fuck knows what they're even saying at this point, mostly just nonsense and random words, as they move together. Zayn snaps his hips forward, as Harry rises to meet him. They find a rhythm so good, Harry starts to see stars. He briefly thinks that if they were standing up, or in any position where he wasn't laying like this, he would've passed out by now. But he shakes his head, he has to focus.  
  
"Fuck you're so tight," Zayn growls, as he snaps his hips again.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah," he growls again as he sits back, shifting his weight so he's kneeling.  
  
"Harry, I'm not going to last. Haz. Hazza. I'm going to come," Zayn says as he stares down at where their bodies meet, where his cock is slamming into Harry, again and again, each word punctuated by a harsh breath.  
  
Harry can feel his own orgasm building.  
  
Zayn grips his the back of his thighs tighter and says, "Touch yourself. I wanna see you touch yourself, I wanna see it."  
  
So Harry throws one arm up to grab Zayn's hair, and the other to his leaking cock. He tilts his wrist, tries to get a good grip, as Zayn fucks into him.  
  
"I'm gonna come, Zayn," he whines out, gripping Zayn's hair tighter.  
  
"Do it, you first. I wanna see it," as he speeds up, with hardly a rhythm at all. He's close.  
  
With one final flick of his wrist, Harry cries out and comes on his fingers, on his chest. Some even reaches the top of his sternum. The noises coming out of his mouth now are pure whines. Zayn speeds up for the final time, hands on Harry's hips, tighter than they've ever been, as he grunts, coming and coming, shaking himself as he fucks into Harry, fucks through it.  
  
They stay still for a moment, both trying to even out their breathing. Harry closes his eyes and tries to focus, to bring his heart rate down before he has a fucking heart attack. He feels Zayn slowly slip out of him, and he winces slightly. He hears Zayn get off the bed and go to the bathroom.  
  
When he opens them, Zayn is crawling back into bed with a wet cloth. He gently wipes at Harry's chest, his stomach, his neck. Harry watches him. He sees the look on his face, the look of generosity and affection. He rolls his head to the side, smiling into his shoulder.  
  
If Harry had been looking harder, he would've seen another look on Zayn's face as well.  
  
Once Zayn has thrown the cloth back towards the bathroom, he settles back into the bed next to him. The sheets are a mess, the comforter at the edge of the bed, and they both lay next to each other, starring at the ceiling. Harry wants to tell Zayn something, anything. He wants to snuggle. He wants to run away. He never wants Zayn to leave his apartment. He wants it to be him, and Zayn, and Jem, and maybe a dog, because maybe if he had another person around, a dog wouldn't be exhausting. But he doesn't say any of those things. He just lays there.  
  
Eventually though, he has to be honest. Because he doesn't allow himself much with Zayn, not anymore. But he allows himself this. He allows himself to be honest with at least one, small thing.  
  
"Hey, Zayn?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Don't… Just don't, like… leave in the morning. Be here when I wake up, okay?"  
  
"Okay, Harry."  
  
"Okay."  
  
And then they go to sleep.

  
  
***

  
When Harry wakes up, when the light seeps through his black curtains, making the room look like some sort of weird haunted house, he says a silent prayer and looks over.  
  
Zayn's still asleep next to him, under his comforter, having stolen the whole thing, while Harry is tucked up by the windows, naked and chilled. He reaches over and grabs the blankets from Zayn's clutches. He tries to maneuver himself under it.  
  
"You're terrible at sharing," Harry whispers into the room.  
  
"You're such a child," Zayn mumbles as he throws a pillow over his face.  
  
Harry almost laughs then, but he doesn't. He just smiles. Because Zayn's there this time, and that's pretty nice, all things considered. He reaches out to run his finger over Zayn's arm, but he pulls away and faces his body away from Harry.  
  
His smile falters a little, as Zayn tugs some of the covers back.  
  
Harry doesn't sleep much after that.


	5. Chapter 5

Harry might not be completely versed when it comes to how certain aspects of the world work, but he knows a thing or two about self preservation. In fact, he knows it pretty damn well. If you want the god's honest truth, after the Matthew Lieberman pen incident in seventh grade, and after the week he spent in his bed unable to connect with anyone, he made a plan.

Harry went to school that next Monday and kissed Alexis D'Agosta in front of their entire science class, on the mouth, with tongue, after asking her permission, of course. It was his first kiss and it was a spectacle. Girls giggled at them behind their hands, boys punched each other on the arms, trying to get a better look. And do you know why Harry did it?  
  
Because he's not fucking stupid. That's why.  
  
Harry understood the art of self preservation, the need to protect yourself from impending pain, since before he even knew what it was, before he even understood that most sane people only used self preservation for _just themselves_.

See, his dad left when he was five. He remembers because it was just a few days after his birthday when he heard Gemma in her room crying on their mom's shoulder, about how she wouldn't have a dad like other kids in her class had dads. Harry didn't like the sounds Gemma was making, or the fact that mom was crying too. He didn't like that at all. So he clenched his fists, walked right in to Gemma's room, stood in front of them, and announced that he had swallowed a penny.  
  
They spent that entire afternoon in the emergency room, waiting for the doctor to check him out, getting scans done, to figure out if swallowing a penny was dangerous. Harry remembers his mom and Gemma on either side of him, holding his arms, soothing him while nurses hurried around them as he clutched his stomach. His mom told him jokes, Gemma showed everyone how she could do a handstand, and it actually turned out to be a pretty nice day, considering.

Of course, the scans were all clear and Harry apologized, saying he _thought_ he swallowed it, could've _sworn_ it went down his throat, that it was an accident and he was sorry. And before anyone could tell him he can't just "sort of" create mass panic, he ran out of the room towards the parking lot. They went out for ice cream afterwards.  
  
Harry thinks back on that now and feels nothing but shame. Thankfully they had insurance, thankfully there were no other emergencies to get in the way of that day, thankfully Harry was a charming kid who could wrap an entire office of people around his finger. It could've been bad for everyone, had it not gone exactly right.  
  
But he learned a few important lessons that day. He learned that when in doubt, become a distraction. Distract yourself, distract others. If the focus is off the shitty situation at hand and onto something else, even if that something else is you, you're doing it right. Protect mom. Protect Gemma. And if all else fails, and you feel like it's getting too heavy, _bail_.  
  
Simple as that.  
  
(To this day, he still wonders if that made him a selfish child, if he was selfish for distracting people from their own pain, and instead forcing them to worry about him. He hopes not. He hopes that one incident, while a good learning experience, doesn't define his entire childhood. He was good, kind, sweet. But there are some days now, when Harry feels true pain, days when he feels empty and hollow, wrung out and useless, where he goes back to that afternoon in the emergency room, and in his mind, he imagines his current self whispering to his younger self, _don't do this Harry, pain isn't something to fake_. And those are the worst days of all.)  
  
So all in all, Harry knows self preservation when he sees it. He knows the signs, the deflecting, the bailing. He knows it well.

  
  
***

  
He must've slept some, because Harry wakes up again to the sound of running water. He rolls onto his back, realizes he's alone in his bed, and listens for the tap in the kitchen. He hears Zayn walking around, opening a cupboard.  
  
Then he hears a quiet, "What's going on, Jem? How's it hanging? Bet you need this, huh."  
  
Harry knows then and there, definitively, that he is absolutely, 100 percent, ass over tit in love with Zayn Malik. He laughs to himself, realizing that he's known Zayn for a while now, has seen about a thousand different versions of him, knows Zayn, gets Zayn, had Zayn inside of him last night, and _this_ is what finally does it.  
  
Zayn talking to his fucking plant. Again.  
  
He rolls over further, gets out of bed, and grabs a fresh pair of briefs from his dresser. He sips water from the glass on the bedside table, swishes it around in his mouth, and walks to the kitchen. Zayn is facing away from him, hands in the sink, rinsing out a glass, wearing the shorts he wore last night. Harry stands in the doorway and enjoys the view for a minute, before walking in and wrapping his arms around Zayn's midsection. He puts his chin on his shoulder, squeezes him tighter.  
  
"Hey," he says, nuzzling his face into Zayn's neck.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"S'it look like, Haz?" he chuckles lightly. "I just watered Jem and now I'm cleaning up after myself."  
  
"You put water in a glass, emptied the water into a pot, and are now washing the glass, with more water?" he says, smiling into his neck now.  
  
"Oh fuck off, Harry." He doesn't sound truly annoyed, he laughs a little at the end. But it still doesn't sound sweet rolling off his tongue. Harry also feels his body tighten slightly under his arms, as he turns off the sink.  
  
Zayn pushes back against Harry's chest. Harry knows, it's not _hold me tighter_ , it's _I have to move now, Harry_. And Harry hates it.

So he lets his arms drop and steps back, allowing Zayn to walk around him and back into the main room. Harry follows.  
  
"So what are we doing today, then?"  
  
"Well I would be picking you up at the airport about now, but seeing as how you're already here, I should go work," Zayn says as he pulls on his shirt. He walks around the room, picking up the scripts he brought up, his keys.  
  
"Work?"  
  
"Yeah, work. I have a few auditions this week, so I need to memorize my scenes, figure out my blocking. Work."  
  
Lately it seemed that whenever Zayn had scenes to run, lines to memorize, blocking to figure out, Harry was there with him. He helped. He was always the other person in the scene. So Harry looks at him, completely perplexed.  
  
"Well do you need help? I can read the other side of the lines for you," he says. He almost adds, "Like I have been for the last month," but he refrains.  
  
"No, I should do it on my own. I really have to focus." He stares at Harry now, with a determined look, willing Harry to understand, to leave him alone.  
  
Harry never met a situation he didn't want to end in his favor, so he eggs Zayn on, to force him to let him help.  
  
"But don't you need me to do a fun accent, or highlight the pages for you, or inflect where you tell me to? You know you like bossing me around," he says as he grins like Harry fucking Styles. Harry can feel the tension in the air, can sense something's not right, that he should stop, should back down, but he lives in opposites, so he _can't_.  
  
Zayn glares at him, sees through it, knows Harry's being annoying on purpose, as he leans down to put on his shoes. "Harry, I don't want to be a dick right now. I just need to go work and focus, by myself, yeah? Don't be weird about this."  
  
"I'm not being weird."  
  
"Yeah, okay. So…" Zayn says, as he reaches for the door, "thanks then."  
  
Harry feels like his heart literally stops. He feels like all of his internal organs are floating inside his body, like he's at the crest of a roller coaster, about to plummet. If Zayn is seriously and honestly _thanking him_ for last night, for the intimate moments they shared mere hours before, like it was a favor, like Harry helped him change a fucking tire on his car, Harry doesn't even know what he'll do or how much he'll rage.  
  
Zayn must sense this, must see it burning behind his eyes, so he clarifies. "Thanks for letting me use your cable, for letting me watch TV here this week."  
  
Harry settles a little, a minuscule amount, but not much. Because Zayn still hasn't acknowledged what they did, what happened, how he feels.  
  
Harry stares.  
  
In the end, he says, "Thanks to you too, then. For my wall. For helping with my inspiration or whatever."  
  
Zayn stares back.  
  
"You're welcome, Haz. I'll see you later, okay?"  
  
"Yeah, okay Zayn," he says as he turns away. He hears him open the door to leave, the screen door banging behind him, his feet going down the stairs.

  
  
***

  
This isn't like last time, he realizes as he stands in the shower. Last time they hadn't fully had sex, they hadn't even gotten naked. Harry barely touched Zayn, Zayn hadn't touched him at all. And they could still pretend like it only happened because they were drunk, because they were neighbors, because it was convenient, easy to forget the next day.  
  
This isn't like last time at all.  
  
Harry looks at himself in the steamed mirror as he steps out of the shower and sees purple bruises and teeth marks lining his collarbones, his shoulders, his chest. There are marks all along his hip bones, round marks the shape of Zayn's fingertips. His spine aches. His heart hurts.  
  
Harry hasn't cried in a long time, not truly, but he does then. He cries and he doesn't know how he's going to stop.  
  
Because Harry knows self preservation when he sees it. He knows the signs, the deflecting, the bailing. He knows it well.

  
  
  
***

  
Once Harry stops crying and dresses himself, he paces. He paces back and forth in the main room, towards the blue wall, away from the blue wall, back and forth, making himself dizzy. He can sense it's about to get bad, that he's about to fall down and not get back up. He feels like the walls are closing in, like he's about to vomit. But he knows he has two choices: he can throw his phone into the garbage disposal, get into bed, close the curtains, and say fuck it.  
  
_Or_ , he can do the exact opposite. He can live in his opposites once again.  
  
He stops pacing and looks at the newly decorated wall behind his bed. If Zayn can be fine, can go to work, can hike, can eat, than so can he. If the world expects him to crawl up and die, then he'll do the exact opposite. They told him this his whole life, everyone, his mom, Gemma, that he can change the world if he wants to, with just a smile and a flick of his curls. If that's what they want, then he will. Maybe he finally fucking will, maybe it's finally time, he thinks as he curls his hands into fists.  
  
He'll be the best Harry fucking Styles they've ever seen.  
  
And if he has to chant _I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine_ in his head while he does, so be it.

  
  
***

  
  
"You're in a good mood," Niall says as he eats his soup at his desk, next to Harry's in the newsroom at the office, two days later.  
  
"Yeah, yeah I am. It feels good," Harry grins as he sips his juice. "It's like, I had this weekend epiphany where I was like, happiness is a choice, you know? Like you can choose to be happy, or sad, or angry. And if you can choose, then why not choose the best one for you? Why not be your best self, you know?"  
  
Niall watches as Harry thrums the bottle of juice against his thigh, smacking it against himself over and over, as he speaks in a heated rush.  
  
Harry continues, barely taking a breath, "So I'm choosing to be happy or excited, or whatever I have to be, on any given day, to be good. I want to be good, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, okay," Niall says as he sets his spoon down, still eyeing him.  
  
"Which leads me to this: we're going out tonight."  
  
"It's Monday."  
  
"So?"  
  
"When have we ever gone out on a Monday? What's the point?"  
  
"We went out last Monday."  
  
"That was New York. It's different for us in New York, you know that."  
  
Harry waves his hand in Niall's direction, turning himself back to his desktop. "Oh fuck off, Niall. I'm picking you up at 8:30. Don't wear what you're wearing now."  
  
He hears Niall give a small huff as he goes back to work at his desk, mumbling something along the lines of _I look fine_. Harry grins to himself as he starts to write the next piece he's been assigned, something about the importance of "Saved by the Bell" for today's teens.  
  
_I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine._

  
  
***

  
  
Harry is drunk. He's so drunk, he doesn't even think he's that drunk anymore. Niall's not _as_ drunk, but he's definitely not sober, as the two of them dance in the West Hollywood bar Harry dragged them to. He needed to be around his people, in a room full of men all looking and needing the same thing from each other: camaraderie. Luckily Niall doesn't mind being around a bunch of horny gay guys. In any case, Harry keeps him close all night, hand on his lower back, staring daggers at anyone who tries to approach them. For all they know Niall is his, he's taken, they're together. So they dance.  
  
When they do separate, for Harry to take a piss in the bathroom, a guy looks him up and down, and smiles as they wash their hands. Harry thinks about maybe blowing him in a stall, but he decides against it. He doesn't need it, not yet. He still has to get home. He has all night. So he dances back into the bar, finds Niall, and throws his head back as he bounces to the music.  
  
He feels good, he feels light, he feels on top of the fucking world.  
  
So he has two more shots, for good measure.

  
***

  
  
"You good? Are you sure you're good? I can walk you upstairs," Niall asks him later, as Harry leans on him just outside his front gate. The cab sits idly waiting to take Niall home.  
  
"M'good, Ni. I promise," he slurs, as he clings to Niall's chest like a spider monkey.  
  
"Drink water before you go to sleep, okay? Say it out loud, say you will."  
  
Harry sniffles, removes himself from Niall's clutches, steps back towards the gate. "I'll drink water. I promise."  
  
"Night, Haz."  
  
Harry feels Niall's eyes on his back as he walks through the gate and halfway through the courtyard. Harry indulges him, turns around to wave, just as Niall waves back from the cab window. It drives off and Harry stands there, alone.  
  
Not that he _planned_ this exactly, but Harry grins to himself as he walks to the door with the brass 3. He knocks loudly, insistently, for a few minutes without stopping. He closes his eyes and leans against the screen door frame, waiting for an answer. Knocking. Knocking.  
  
Finally, after a century, he hears the wooden door open, hears sleep in Zayn's voice. "Harry? What the fuck are you doing here? It's late, dude."  
  
"Sorry _dude_ , I just wanted to say hi," he says, eyes still closed, still leaning against the screen.  
  
"Get in here, you're going to wake up the whole goddamn neighborhood," Zayn says as he nudges Harry to move, so he can open the screen and pull him in.  
  
"Oh please, like you of all people should talk about waking your neighbors at this time of night," Harry slurs, walking into the main room, kicking off his shoes.  
  
He turns and sees Zayn eyeing his socked feet. He must be wondering where Harry's going with this. Harry stares at Zayn, at his stubble, at his bare chest. He wants to put a kiss right where Zayn has the tattooed lips. He wants to bite it.  
  
He wants to see Zayn _try_ and deflect him now, to bail now. Because Harry will allow him to deflect his feelings, his emotions, his heart, but he won't let him deflect entirely. He's still here. Pushing.  
  
"Do you need water?" Zayn asks.  
  
"No."  
  
"Let me help you upstairs, yeah?" But then Zayn sighs and puts his hands on his hips, continuing with, "Or do you want to crash here?"  
  
"Do you want me to crash here?"  
  
"Haz."  
  
"Say it."  
  
"Harry, I have an audition tomorrow. A big one, actually. It's for the CW people, the ones I told you I need to like me," Zayn says, hands still on his hips.  
  
"Want to run lines? I can run lines with you."  
  
"No, I want to sleep."  
  
Harry slowly walks towards him, like a stray cat hunting a mouse in a shitty alley downtown. When he reaches him, their toes touching, Harry grabs Zayn's hands from his hips and pulls them down so they're linked between them.  
  
He leans in, whispers, "C'mon Zayn, let's run lines. I can be in the scene with you. I can do that accent, the one that makes you laugh." He holds his hands tighter, speaking into his neck now. "Remember that funny line, remember it?"  
  
As he leans back to look in Zayn's eyes, to see his expression, he finds he can't read it.  
  
"C'mon Zayn, remember?" Then he gets right up to his ear, and blows into as he says, "Want to call me Mary, Zayn? You can call me anything, I'll let you."  
  
Harry feels it then, the shiver that runs down Zayn's spine, the goosebumps that erupt on his forearms. Harry feels himself pushing Zayn, pushing him and pushing him, tugging him along, forcing him to do something, say something.  
  
And just like that, Zayn grabs Harry by the back of the neck and slams him face first against the back of the door, Harry's cheek hitting it with a thud. Harry smiles, puts his hands up next to his face, pushes his ass out, shaking it from side to side a little.  
  
"Call me Mary, Zayn."  
  
He doesn't actually call him Mary, because he doesn't speak at all. He just grabs at Harry's shirt and throws it behind them. Harry feels him still for a moment and can't figure out why, until he remembers the bruises, the marks, the teeth imprints.  
  
"See what you did? You wanna mark me up again? Make it hurt?"  
  
Zayn's hand tightens around the back of his neck, over his spine, as he bites the thick muscle of Harry's shoulder, hard. Harry cries out against the door, which barely muffles him. Harry has no idea where the lube comes from, but he hears the lid, feels when Zayn finally shoves two fingers into him, making him cry out again.  
  
Zayn makes him sputter, so he's babbling gibberish, panting, whining. And when Zayn finally rolls the condom on, slicks himself further, and enters him, Harry remembers thinking about the last time they did this, where he had the thought that if he did this standing, he'd pass out. So right now he very nearly does, but he can't not enjoy it, so he forces himself to be present, to steady his breathing.  
  
Zayn holds his hips and drives into him, relentlessly, almost painfully. Harry's dick is leaking and he needs to touch it, needs to relieve the pressure. Zayn must read his thoughts because he reaches around to jerk him in time with his movements.  
  
"I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come. Do you wanna see?" he sputters out, as he pushes his head back from the door, anticipating Zayn will want to see like every time before, will let him turn around, change position, something. But Zayn doesn't. He holds his neck tighter, pushes him against the door harder, pounds into him. He flicks his wrist and Harry comes so hard, he really does think he might pass out. His breathing is all over the place, his head feels heavy.  
  
But without missing a beat, Zayn slides out of him and tugs on the back of his head. Harry stumbles a bit, his jeans and briefs around his thighs, as he feels Zayn turn him and shove him to his knees. Zayn rips off the condom and throws it to the floor, before he furiously fists himself. He's biting his lip, he almost looks like he's in pain. Or like he's angry.  
  
Harry just stares at his hand as it blurs on his dick, still trying to control his breathing. Zayn grabs him by the hair and tugs him forward just as he comes with a harsh exhale. Harry hurries to open his mouth, to take what he can, to do what Zayn wants. Zayn just watches himself as he comes and comes, into Harry's mouth, on his face, across his cheek.  
  
When he stops, he steps away, breathing like he's about to puke. He even puts his hands on his knees, head dipped, to level himself. They both breathe for a few seconds, before Zayn reaches down and grabs Harry's shirt, throwing it to him, nodding towards his face. Harry cleans himself off, wipes at his cheeks. But he licks his lips so Zayn sees, so Zayn knows he swallowed what he could.  
  
Zayn grabs his shorts and quickly puts them on, before collapsing back onto his bed. Harry doesn't know what to do. He's come down from his crazed high, but he's still slightly drunk. He stands there, does up his jeans, weighing his options, wondering. It's not until he sees the bottle of water sitting on the coffee table that he remembers his promise to Niall, so he chugs the whole thing down, still standing, contemplating.  
  
"You can sleep here," he hears mumbled from underneath the blankets.  
  
Harry almost tells Zayn he doesn't need to, that he's just fine going upstairs, thank you. But he doesn't. Because he's pathetic.  
  
So he crawls into bed, tries to get comfortable under the rough blankets. They lay with their backs to each other, Harry facing the window.  
  
"I won't be here when you wake up," Zayn sighs.  
  
"I figured."

  
  
***

  
So that's how it is, for weeks upon weeks, like two hurricanes colliding. Harry is erratic, manic, high as a kite when he's at work or out with Niall (because they go out almost every night now), he laughs at his own jokes, he waters Jem while he attempts to whistle. He has fun, he becomes a fun person, someone people want to be around. Sure he chants _I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine_ in his head a lot, but who doesn't these days? And then Zayn fucks him within an inch of his life every other night, so it's fine.  
  
Sometimes Harry comes home, wasted out of his mind, to find himself knocking on Zayn's door, to find Zayn also wasted out of his mind. Zayn fucks him against the door once and a while, like the first time Harry barged into his apartment practically demanding it. They do that when Zayn's feeling especially rough, but they also do it in the kitchen against the counter, on the couch so Harry can ride him, in Zayn's bed. They do it over and over, every different way, in about a hundred inebriated moments, and it's fine.  
  
Other times Zayn finds him first, before he even has the chance to go out with Niall, when Zayn's been day drinking with his actor friends, and they fuck on Harry's floor. Or Zayn goes out and gets drunk, and Harry finds him crawling towards the stairs, calling out for him. On those nights, when Zayn's extra sauced, Harry has him lay there while he blows him, nice and relaxed. Sometimes Zayn even lets him get a finger inside him, and those nights are Harry's favorite, because he loves the look on Zayn's face when he slides his finger against his prostate. And they do just fine.

It's weeks and weeks, of highs and highs, and it's the best Harry's ever felt.  
  
The best though, or the worst, actually is the Friday night when they celebrate Zayn's gig on a new network drama that will premiere midseason, next spring, almost a full year from now, not that Zayn cares. It's not a huge part, he'll only be a recurring character. He gets to play a former Marine on some show about werewolves and he's absolutely overflowing with giddiness. And it feels weird because they actually interact together that night, in a real bar, with real people, in an actual social situation. Harry invites Niall to congratulate Zayn, and Zayn has various friends there as well, everyone patting him on the back, ruffling his hair. Zayn looks absolutely illuminated, explaining where they'll be shooting, how great his costars are, how he needs to do more pushups to get ready for it. Harry keeps his distance, not knowing who the fuck they even are to each other anymore. But he watches. And he waits.  
  
Niall eyes him. Because while Niall knows Harry's recent behavior is because of something, he didn't know for sure if this was the cause. As he looks around, looks at Zayn, he's starting to figure it out. Because again, Niall Horan is no idiot. So when Harry catches him looking at him for the third time, he leans in and says how fine he is, that he's just happy for his friend. Niall drinks his beer faster.  
  
He doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly he's in a bathroom stall with Zayn and they're kissing feverishly, pawing at chests and clothes, grinding against the wall. Harry had watched Danny and Zayn whispering to each other right before he followed Zayn in here, and he's so fucking happy he did, because now they're both hard and panting. But Harry's already light headed, not knowing where it's going, wondering if they're really going to do this here. But just then, Zayn breathes in his ear, "Not here, later."  
  
Then he pulls out a small baggie of white powder, puts some on his pinky and snorts it. He throws his head back, wincing, rubbing at his face, and then laughs like a maniac. When he looks into Harry's eyes, he seems alive, excited, happy.

So when he offers some to Harry, holding up the same pinky, Harry doesn't even think about it. He just snorts and smiles and laughs. Then Zayn reaches up to Harry's smile, to rub his pinky over Harry's gums, and they laugh harder. He grabs at Zayn again, because they've been so good, they've been doing so good. They laugh into the kiss, smiling against each other, hearts beating a million times a minute.

Harry thinks it again: they can do this, they've _been_ doing this, and no one's hurting or depressed or stuck in bed. So okay, they don't fuck and then hug in the morning over the sink, they don't have breakfast together, or kiss much besides in these heated, crazed moments. But it's not _bad_. It is so, so fine.  
  
When they get home, they fuck in Harry's bed, three times, before they pass out in a sweaty heap.

  
  
***

  
  
The next morning, Harry is pretty sure he's dying. He has to be, honest to god dying. Because his head is pounding, his mouth is dry, and he's almost certain that his stomach is going to chuck itself clean out of his body through his mouth. He hears a groaning sound next to him and realizes Zayn is probably dealing with the same symptoms.  
  
Harry should get them water. He should get the Gatorade he's been buying in bulk out of the fridge and have them drink it. They should eat. They should shower. They smell like a bar, like cigarettes and booze and sweat. He should be taking care of Zayn like he always does, like Zayn needs. But it's just too hard to move at the moment, so he stays on his stomach and buries his head further underneath the pillow they're sharing.  
  
Then out of nowhere, Harry hears it. He hears the key in his door, turning slowly. He hears the door open.  
  
Their arms are touching, and Harry feels Zayn tense up beside him, so he must hear it too.  
  
"Uh, hey."  
  
Harry slowly extricates himself from under the pillow, turns his body as best he can, and sits up, looking towards the door, to find Niall standing there, holding a bag of food and his spare key.  
  
"Hey, Ni. What are you doing here so early?" he says, his voice hoarse and groggy.  
  
"It's like two in the afternoon and you haven't answered your phone, so…"  
  
"Why didn't you knock?" he says as he scratches his head, looking down to see Zayn still on his stomach, head turned away from him, still under the blankets, purposefully not participating in the conversation.  
  
It's not until he glances up to see Niall's expression that he realizes Niall thought this was going to be a spiral, that knocking wouldn't do any good, that Harry would be vacant and distant. He thought Harry needed him. So Harry tries to smile, to look Niall in the eyes, to silently explain _I'm all good, don't worry. Nothing's wrong, just tired, just hungover, see?_  
  
But Niall only stares back at him.  
  
They keep staring. Niall isn't getting the silent messages. Harry starts to feel frustrated.  
  
"Hey so Zayn, I think you better go, bud," Niall says as he sets the food on Harry's desk. He stares at Harry again.  
  
It seems Zayn doesn't need to be told twice, because he rolls over, covering himself with the blanket, searching the floor for any sort of clothing. He grabs a pair of Harry's sweatpants. Niall politely turns around and faces the bookshelf while Zayn slips them on. Harry realizes that Zayn still hasn't really looked at him since they woke up.  
  
Harry's slow brain finally catches up as he watches this, so he says, "No, no Zayn. You don't have to leave." He looks to Niall. "What are you doing? He can stay here."  
  
Zayn The Sloth stands, eyes still half closed, half asleep. "No, s'all good, Haz. I'll see you later." He finally locates his shoes and his keys on the floor, and walks out the door.  
  
Niall looks at Harry again, shaking his head slightly, and walks into the kitchen. Now Harry is pissed. Niall comes in without asking, forces Zayn to leave, and then shakes his head in judgement? _Fuck that._ Harry scrambles up, puts on Zayn's shorts and stomps into the kitchen.  
  
"Fuck that. What are you doing?"  
  
Niall grabs a Gatorade and tries to push it into Harry's hands. "He needed to go, Harry. It's late in the afternoon and you haven't answered your phone, so he needed to leave so you and I can have a talk."  
  
"I don't want to talk. I didn't know you were coming here, I would've told you to stay home."  
  
"I know you would've."  
  
"What the fuck, Niall? Why are you here? I didn't ask you to come here. I didn't ask you for any of it."  
  
"You never ask and yet here I always am."  
  
"Oh fuck you," Harry says as he stomps back into the main room, throwing the Gatorade back at Niall over his shoulder. Niall follows.  
  
"Haz, I'm going to be really honest with you, okay? This is me being honest. Because I'm your friend." Harry ignores him, busies himself with throwing clothes around, moving shit around on the floor for no reason. "I think you need to move back in with me."  
  
Harry turns to him. "What? Why do you think that?"  
  
"You tried it, okay? You tried living alone, and it sort of worked, sometimes. You did good, most days. But now? Now it _really_ isn't working, Haz. I made sure to come help you when you needed it, but it's not enough anymore, because you're spiraling. I can see it. Maybe I indulged you too much, went out with you too many nights. But it seemed fine, at first."  
  
"I haven't been in my bed in months, Niall. That's supposed to be a good thing. I haven't turned my phone off, I haven't pushed you away. I'm right here," he says, holding his arms out as proof.  
  
"If you think all of _this_ , the shit you've been doing lately, _isn't_ spiraling? Well then we have a much bigger problem to deal with."  
  
"Don't fucking judge me, Niall. Don't judge me for trying to be positive, and nice, and sweet. I am _trying_ , okay?" Harry has the sudden urge to shove at him, throw something, and that's a new feeling.  
  
"No, you're hiding. You're fucking around with an alcoholic asshole who doesn't give two shits about you."  
  
"Go fuck yourself," he spits out. He picks up the paper bag of food and shoves it at Niall's chest, breathing. "Get out and go fuck yourself, Niall. Go home. I'm sick of you thinking you're my fucking dad, or my fucking savior or something. I'm trying to do better, by not laying in my bed like a child, and you're here trying to push me back into it. You want to _talk_. But you know what, I don't _need_ you right now, Niall. Look around. You're always forcing me to do shit I don't want to do. Jesus, you're the worst fucking friend I've ever had." Harry stops when he realizes he's been venting and pacing like a maniac, pulling at his hair.  
  
Niall looks at him then, sees right through him, as he shoves the bag back into Harry's arms. He looks into Harry's eyes and sees the rage, the sorrow, the anger. And normally Niall would let him say it, would let him throw the shoe, as it were. And he's heard Harry get mad at him before, say stupid things, get vitriolic and mean, rage at him. But he's never said Niall was a bad friend, and he's never looked like he could say it and actually mean it, until this moment.  
  
So instead of hugging Harry or pushing him into bed, to force him to let go and talk it out, he does the opposite and walks out the door. Because maybe Harry's rubbing off on him, maybe he's living in opposites now too.  
  
Harry is stunned at first, in disbelief that Niall actually left him. He's never done that before, never walked out with the true intent of leaving him behind. And that makes him even more irrationally angry so he follows him out, stomping after him, letting the screen door slam behind him as he looks out over the courtyard as Niall makes his way across it.  
  
"Niall! You forgot this, you fucking prick," he yells as he chucks the bag over the railing, where it arcs through the air, smacking Niall in the back.  
  
Niall doesn't get angry, not often, but he's angry then. So he lets it out. He turns on his heel, furious as all hell, and looks up at Harry.  
  
"Fuck off, Harry. This is _it_." Then he looks down, and continues shouting, this time at the door with the brass 3. "You hear that, Zayn? I'm fucking done! Hear me? Just be careful, shithead! Because when you break him, you buy him. And I won't fucking be here to pick up the pieces."  
  
Harry doesn't know if Zayn can hear them, if Zayn's listening. But he sure is, finally listening to Niall, and he wants to puke.  
  
Niall looks back up at him, chest heaving. They lock eyes for a moment, before Niall turns and walks out the gate.

And then everything crashes and the world ends.

  
***

  
Not much Zayn does surprises Harry anymore, not since they started whatever it is they started after Zayn did his wall for him. But this, what's happening now, this surprises him.  
  
Because after Niall left that afternoon, and after Harry raged around his apartment in anger, before he then curled in a ball and cried for what felt like hours, if someone had asked him if he wanted to go out, or have a drink, or dance at a bar, he would've punched whoever suggested it. It's not like he expected Zayn to come to his rescue or come up to see how he was doing after the fight, but he _had_ to of heard Niall. He had to know what happened and how Harry must be feeling. He can't help but think, _he should know better_.

So Harry is honestly beside himself when he wakes up out of the groggy half sleep he found himself in, to hear the telltale noises in the courtyard that mean Zayn is walking around, bumping into something, drunk, high, fucked up.  
  
"Harry, come down here!" he hears him yell, as if it weren't the middle of the night and they didn't share a building with ten other people.  
  
Harry is torn because on one hand, he wants to be with Zayn every second of every day, wants to hear every thought he's ever had, kiss him, be ruined by him. But on the other hand, the thought of seeing Zayn drunk right now when he felt so lousy, just sounded like an awful idea.  
  
But Harry can't stay away for long, he knows he'll cave, knows they'll meet and converge like they always do, so it might as well be now. He puts on Zayn's shorts from before and heads out.  
  
"Hey Zayn, let's go home, yeah?" he mumbles as he walks down the stairs, towards Zayn in the middle of the courtyard, where he's holding a bottle of vodka and his jacket. Harry feels the deja vu again.  
  
"Hazza, we _are_ home," he says, gesturing to their building, as if it's completely obvious. "See?"  
  
"I know. I know, come on, let's go," as he grabs his bicep and pulls him towards his door, frowning. "Can I take that bottle?" he says as he grabs it and his jacket away from him.  
  
"You want some? I have glasses inside, I'll make you a drink, okay?" he sways, as Harry takes his keys and unlocks the door.  
  
"I don't want a drink."  
  
"You should have one. Your face is doing a thing."  
  
"I don't want one."  
  
"Okay."  
  
Zayn kicks off his shoes and throws himself face first onto his bed, still dressed. Harry starts to contemplate how many times he's done this now, how the scene never changes, how Zayn just waltzes home when he feels like it and expects Harry to be there. He frowns again, but leans down and takes off his boots, tugs off his jeans. He's just about to go into the kitchen to get the water and aspirin when he hears Zayn call his name, quietly, into the pillow.  
  
"Yeah," he says quietly, as he sits down next to him. "I'm here."  
  
"Haz, I heard Niall earlier."  
  
"I figured."  
  
"He said if I break you, I buy you. Did you hear him say that?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I heard that," he whispers, reaching out to brush Zayn's hair out of his face, away from his eyes. Zayn nuzzles into his hand.  
  
"I can't buy you, Haz. Okay? I can't break you and I can't buy you."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Because I'm already broken. I'm too broken. I can't break you too, okay?" he sighs, eyes still closed.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Zayn drifts off to sleep then, just as a Harry's chest catches in a sob, just as the first tear spills out. He wants to curl up with Zayn, make him see that while he might be a little bent, he's not broken. He wants to cry into his shoulder and shush him when he makes noise, he wants to give him water and aspirin when he wakes up, he wants to hold on for dear life. He wants, he wants, he wants.  
  
That's Harry problem though, he always wants too much.  
  
So against his better judgement, he wipes his face with the back of his hand, gets up and goes upstairs.

  
  
***

  
If Harry had it his way, now would be the time to get into bed and not leave for weeks at time. If he truly thought about everything that happened before this, the times he thought he might get depressed and spiral, those times were nothing compared to this. This here, _this_ was hell. The feelings of sadness, anger, gut wrenching sorrow, the feelings he had tried to suppress and squash down, they're here now.  
  
All he wants to do is cry in his bed. But he can't because he knows if he tries to stay home from work again, he'll get fired. And he can't lose his job, because then he'd lose his apartment, his car, his livelihood, so he goes into the office.  
  
He looks terrible, like an old washrag too worn and used, and he feels his coworkers avoiding him. He can sense people walking towards him and then veering off so they don't have to speak. People aren't used to this version of Harry, the version without a spark. Niall sits only a desk away, but he won't look Harry's way, won't glance over, or check if he's drinking enough water, ask if he's called his mom today. Niall leaves headphones on from the second he gets in to the second he leaves at night, drowns it all out, leaves him be.  
  
And pathetically enough, if he had to pinpoint the worst part of being in love with Zayn Malik? It'd be the fact that Niall Horan won't speak to him anymore.  
  
Since he figured out he loved Zayn, when he came to the realization that morning in his bed, he's squashed those feelings too, held them down. It's ironic then, that he spent all of his time with Zayn while also trying to forget Zayn.

Harry is nothing if not a riddle. He's also stupid. He knows that now.

He also knows that you can only push away and try to get rid of your love for Zayn Malik for so long before it crushes you from the inside out.  
  
These days when he gets home from work, he stares at the ground while he walks through the gate, in the courtyard, up the stairs. He refuses to look towards Zayn's door to see if he's home because he doesn't want to know. If Zayn's in there, he'll want to be in there with him, running lines, eating gummy bears. But Zayn told him he can't buy him, for fear of breaking him, and Harry is finally using his self preservation skills for himself, finally trying to use the "bail if it gets too hot" method he taught himself so long ago.

It's weeks and weeks, of lows and lows, and Harry blames himself.

  
  
***

  
It's been a few weeks since the fight, since Zayn told him, in his own Zayn-like way, that it had to be over. Harry has heard him a few times, coming home, stumbling around downstairs, calling out for him. But he just presses his face into his pillows, pretends he can't hear, pretends he's fine. He tries his _I'm fine_ chants, but they don't work as well now that he's crashed from one of the highest highs he had ever achieved.  
  
The worst night is when Zayn calls out to him and instead of just saying his name, or asking him to come down, he says more.  
  
"Harry! Haz! Come down here!" he hears as he tries to cover his ears.  
  
It doesn't work. He can feel himself about to cry. Because at a certain point Harry realized his tears aren't even for himself anymore, for just his own sadness. They're for Zayn, too.

Because Zayn is hurting, Zayn has a problem, and Harry can't buy him either.

He's too broken.  
  
"Hazza! Haz, I wanted to tell you. I shot my first two episodes for the show. I wanted to tell you about the production! It's just so great, Haz. I have my own trailer! Harry!"  
  
Harry shakes his head back and forth on his pillow, tries his chant, tries and tries and tries, because all he wants to do is run down and engulf Zayn in a hug to tell him how proud he is. But he can't. So he prays that Zayn stops, that he goes inside before a neighbor calls the cops, before Zayn gets himself arrested. In the past, Harry would've gotten to him by now, forced him to go to bed. But Harry's not there anymore. He can't let himself be.  
  
He hears one last pathetic "Hazza!" before Zayn finally goes inside, slams his door, and presumably passes out on his bed.  
  
Harry doesn't cry anymore because now he just feels numb.

He wishes he could call Niall, but he can't. Even though the thing with Zayn is done and Harry is vowing to move on, to at least try, he doesn't deserve Niall. And Niall doesn't deserve to be saddled with his problems.

Niall has always deserved better than him.

So he stays numb.

  
  
***

  
A few weeks after Zayn yelled for him, Harry sits in his apartment staring at his laptop, willing himself to write his fucking novel. But it's the same story as ever, he has nothing, no ideas, so inspiration. Just nothing.  
  
He had just gotten off the phone with his mom, after they had a two hour conversation about him moving back home to Iowa. Apparently even though Niall hadn't looked at him in weeks, he had the foresight to call Anne and let her know that Harry might need her a little more now, without giving away any details about their fight.  She was convinced LA wasn't working anymore, that he needed her, that it was time. So Harry plastered on a smile and assured her over and over that he was happy (not true) and loved his job (only about half true). Regardless of how shitty his life has turned out, he knows for a fact that he can't not live in a large coastal city.  
  
So he was, to say the least, pretty annoyed and exhausted.  
  
But then he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He'd ignore it, but it's probably Gemma about to Styles-women-tag-team-guilt-trip him into moving home, so he slips it out to look at the display screen.  
  
It's Zayn.  
  
Now you have to understand, it was only about 9:30 on a Thursday night. It's not like Zayn could be drunk dialing him from some random house in the Hollywood hills, or needed a ride. It was too early for Zayn. He only reached for Harry after 2:00, when he was gone to the world, blacked out. So to receive a call this early is perplexing. Perplexing enough for him to actually want to answer.  
  
"Zayn?"  
  
"Hey, uh… Harry? Can you hear me?" It's not Zayn, but it's a voice he knows, and it sounds like wherever the voice is coming from, is crowded and loud.  
  
"Who is this? Why do you have Zayn's phone?"  
  
"Sorry, it's Danny, man. I'm with Zayn now and he uh, he keeps asking for you."  
  
Harry rubs his hand down his face and exhales. So Zayn _is_ drunk dialing, via Danny. But Harry frowns. It's too early for him to be this drunk, this bad. "Tell him I'll see him later. Tell him I'll see him when he gets home."  
  
"No, he wants you to come here. He says it's important that you come to the bar, right now." And then he says quieter, closer to the receiver, probably with his body angled away from Zayn. "Sorry dude, but he won't shut up. He won't leave it alone, he's getting agitated. I can't handle him, I don't know what to do when he's like this."  
  
"Where are you?"  
  
"Just across the street near your apartment, at that tavern by his favorite tattoo place."  
  
Harry didn't know Zayn had a favorite tattoo place, but he knows the bar, knows it's close. He can walk there easily. And as is Harry's way, he goes against every instinct screaming at him not to go, and tells Danny he's on his way.

  
  
***

  
  
Harry walks in, wearing his shitty black skinny jeans and a black hoodie, and glances around the semi crowded bar. It's about that time when people really settle in for the night, start buying extra rounds for each other, taking shots. It's getting louder, more excitable, people on the look out for who they'll take home. Harry hasn't partied in a long time, not since he got drunk and did coke with Zayn in that bathroom, so the smell is making him nauseous.  
  
He wanders around, searching for Zayn or Danny, or any of the people Harry met the night of Zayn's big celebration, but he doesn't see anyone right away. The tavern is one big circular room, so it's not until he's walking back towards the front on the opposite side of the bar that he sees them. He sees Zayn swaying, holding a beer in one hand, with the other on Danny's chest, pushing him away. They're clearly in some sort of disagreement, something is wrong. Harry takes a breath to brace himself and walks towards them.  
  
When Zayn spots him, you would've thought Harry was the fucking President. Zayn is happy, in awe, excited, jumping up and down.  
  
"Harry! You're here!"  
  
"Hey Zayn," he says as he's pulled into a tight hug.  
  
"Danny didn't think you'd come, but I knew you would! And you're here!" Harry narrows his eyes, glancing back at Danny. Zayn doesn't seem upset, he doesn't seem angry. He wonders why he's here, so he turns back to Zayn, when he leans up and whispers in his ear, "I missed you, Haz. Everyone here was being fucking lame so I thought, shit. Harry should be here because nothing is lame with Harry around, you know?" He leans back and smiles.  
  
"Sure. Yeah, I guess," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. It's then that he notices, now that they're close, the small trace of white powder on Zayn's nostril. Harry doesn't want anyone to notice, so he pulls Zayn in for a quick hug again, and purposefully rubs his shoulder up against Zayn's face to rid it away.  
  
As they pull away, Danny walks up to them and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing, hard. "Hey Zayn, so I'm thinking about heading home early. Headache, fucking sucks, all that. So maybe you and Harry can head out, and I'll call you tomorrow."  
  
Danny's voice sounds steady, placating. He squeezes Harry's shoulder harder, as a warning. Harry's beginning to understand that Zayn _is_ mad, fucking furious, but he's not showing it. Something is beneath the surface, brewing under his skin, vibrating through him. Danny must have seen him just about to blow a gasket when Harry arrived. The energy is wrong.  
  
Zayn turns on him instantly, eyes gone to slits. "Danny, if you tell me one more fucking time that I need to leave, I will bash your fucking head in."  
  
Harry's never heard that tone before. It's not a good one. It's scary.  
  
"Zayn, I'm not telling you, bro. I'm just saying, maybe it's time, you know?"

So Harry tries. "Hey Zayn, let's go home, yeah?" as he grabs for his arm.

"Stop," but his eyes are still on Danny, full of betrayal.  
  
Harry holds out his hand to place it on Zayn's chest, but he shoves it away as he gets closer to Danny, pushing him. Now Danny looks just as pissed and pushes back. Harry tries to put himself between them, to get in the middle and break it up, but they're both too strong.  
  
After that, it all seems like slow motion. Zayn's beer falls from his hand, the glass shatters, as they start to shove harder at each other, with intent. People all across the bar are starting to notice. Harry starts to sweat, he's afraid they're going to get in trouble, that someone will notice how high Zayn is. They keep yelling at each other, various profanities, words of anger.  
  
Just then, Danny shoves Zayn back, harder than before, and Zayn stumbles. He falls into the back of a massive guy and his petite girlfriend, along with their group of equally massive friends. Harry sees it all happening, knows it's real-time, but he feels like he's watching a stop motion film, that it's all delayed somehow, like he's seeing quick snapshots.  
  
He barely knows what to do with himself when the huge guy Zayn fell into heaves his arm back and punches Zayn straight in the face. Danny stands there for a second, stunned as Harry, their group of friends also standing back, not knowing what to do. It's like they're all frozen in place. Everyone in the bar has stopped to look, but there's still ridiculous music playing, and Harry can't stop feeling the bass line rumbling in his core.

Zayn sways for a second, grabs at his face and feels the blood, pulls his hand away, shaking. He looks at Harry with pleading eyes, and it looks like for a split second that he's about to reach out, reach for Harry.  
  
But the guy isn't done, he's still pissed. He punches Zayn again, in the stomach, just as his friend goes over and shoves at Danny.  
  
As Zayn stumbles forward into him, the guy sends the final blow by punching him a second time in the face. Just like slow motion, or stop motion, or whatever the fuck else, it's as if Zayn's entire body is propelled into the air, up and up and up.

And then Zayn falls.  
  
He falls and falls and falls, into the massive floor length window next to the door.  
  
He falls through the glass, breaking it into a million pieces. And then he falls with the glass, towards the ground outside.  
  
He lands on his back, his head making a sickening _crack_ against the concrete.  
  
It isn't until Harry hears Zayn's name being screamed into the air around him that he realizes he's the one screaming, and that no one has rushed to help yet.  
  
And even though he's yelling at the top of his lungs, and other people start yelling, and everyone scrambles around them, Harry only hears the _cracking_ sound on a loop in his head, over and over and over.


	6. Chapter 6

They say your life flashes before your eyes right before you die. Harry's never had a near death experience, so he can't say firsthand if that's true. He's never been in a car accident, or fallen off something, or been hit with a baseball bat by accident in gym class. He's never been in a fight, never been in a broken elevator, or even fallen down a flight of stairs. So he didn't know what that would be like, to see flashes, until now.  
  
Because when he hears the _crack_ of Zayn's skull on the pavement outside the bar, scenes and questions flash for him then, as a bystander. He sees flashes in those few seconds he stands there idly, while the bar erupts, while people scream, and the music cuts out, people shouting about calling an ambulance.  
  
In those few seconds, Harry stops screaming Zayn's name and just stands there, with a tear streaked face, hands covering his ears, as his brain moves in flashes.  
  
He sees flashes of Zayn laughing, of his face right before he sneezes, the sound he makes when he squeals with excitement, the way his entire face lights up sometimes when Harry walks into a room.  He sees his tattoos, the scar on his leg, his shoes lined up by his door, his leather jacket, the way he holds a cigarette. Flash after flash after flash.  
  
He realizes he doesn't know Zayn's middle name. He doesn't know his favorite color. When he told Zayn about Jem Finch being his favorite literary character, he didn't even politely ask Zayn if he had a favorite of his own, what his favorite book is. He doesn't know his sisters' names. He knows Zayn doesn't eat pork or celebrate Christmas, which he assumed were for religious reasons, but he never asked anything about it. He didn't ask Zayn why he chose the specific quotes and images for his blue wall, didn't even _think_ to ask. They've never gone to see a movie together, so he doesn't know how Zayn likes his popcorn. If he eats popcorn.  
  
And then as suddenly as he zoned out, Harry suddenly zones back in. He shakes his head, he has to focus. He can't just stand here.

So he gets to work.

  
  
***

  
It's like a cannon goes off in his brain, propelling him forward, into Zayn's space like old times. He flies out the door and rushes to Zayn on the concrete. People had started to crowd around him, too afraid to move him, so Harry bellows for them to get out of the way. Apparently when he's this intense, no one fucks with him. They all back away.  
  
He leans down in the glass and gets right up to Zayn's face. There is blood drying around his nose and mouth from the punches, his eyes closed. He looks peaceful. Harry almost cries out with relief when he sees his chest rising and falling. He can't move him, so he winces as he forces himself to bend his neck to see if there is blood pooling anywhere underneath his head, his body. He doesn't see any and this time he really does cry out, dramatic like, on his haunches, face towards the sky.  
  
Harry feels Danny's hand on his shoulder, his entire arm shaking. He looks up at him from his crouched position and sees Danny's face, white as a sheet. So he keeps working.  
  
He stands up. "I heard someone say they called an ambulance and the police, yeah?" Danny nods. "I want you to stay here, no matter what, so you can tell the cops exactly what happened and who the fucker was that did this, okay?" Danny stares. "Say it out loud, say you will."  
  
He nods his head faster, "I will, I will."  
  
"But stay close to me for now, don't leave my side yet."  
  
"I won't, I won't."  
  
The paramedics arrive and push Harry and Danny out of the way. They do a bunch of stuff Harry doesn't understand, and a few he does: they take his pulse, listen to his heart, maneuver him onto a backboard for transport. It's as this is happening one yells out, "How much has he had to drink? Is he on anything?"  
  
Harry practically runs to them, and says in a rush, "He was drinking, I'm not sure how much. But he was on his feet, talking. I've seen him worse, he can usually handle more." The paramedic nods, as he says quietly, "And cocaine. I saw him with cocaine."  
  
"Anything else?"  
  
Harry practically breaks his neck as he whips he head around to look at Danny, as he comes forward too, and says, "N-no, nothing else." Harry glares at him. "I swear, we were drinking and he had a few bumps of coke, that's it. I swear."  
  
After what seems like years, they start to load him into the ambulance. Harry's about to hop in with them when it hits him. He waves Danny out of the crowd again.  
  
"I need you to call Niall Horan and tell him to meet me at the hospital."  
  
"Who?" he says, still shaking, peering into the ambulance.  
  
"Figure it the fuck out, Danny. Niall Horan. Go."  
  
The doors slam shut, the sirens blast, and they leave.

  
  
***

  
The ambulance ride feels like it lasts an hour and a second all at once. He ends up holding Zayn's wallet and phone in his shaking hands, while he watches the paramedics work on him. They have to cut through his favorite black tank top with the massive biting blue snake on it, and if weren't such a horrible time to do it, Harry would laugh at how pissed Zayn is going to be, if he's okay. Once he's okay. He actually asks if he can have it, even though it's in shreds, just in case Zayn wants it back.  
  
Once they get to the hospital, Zayn is taken away and no one will tell him where he's gone. Harry paces, hyperventilates, and cries. He cries a lot.  
  
A nurse asks him if he's family, or who they can contact. So Harry pulls out Zayn's phone and gives them the numbers of "Mom" and "Dad" and "Doniya," the top three numbers in his Favorites contact list. He also finds his SAG card in his wallet, hoping it has something to do with insurance, and hands that over as well.  
  
Then he sits in the chairs by the nurse's desk and cries into his hands some more.

  
  
***

  
Eventually a nurse calls him over to the desk again and hands him a phone, with a small smile. His hands won't stop shaking, but he takes it from her.  
  
"H-hello?"  
  
"Harry?"  
  
"Who is this?"  
  
"Harry, this is Trisha, Zayn's mom. They called me and told me what happened, and they said you were there."  
  
He can feel himself starting to lose it again. He can't believe she's so calm. "Y-yeah, I was there. I saw it."  
  
"Oh don't cry, Harry. It's okay. He's going to be fine." He lets out a wracking sob. "He hit his head and has pretty bad concussion, but there isn't any internal bleeding, no glass got in anywhere. He'll be okay, sunshine."  
  
Trisha Malik, let it be known, is a saint. Because she lets Harry cry to her on the phone, while her only son is in the hospital, and doesn't cry back, or blame him, or freak out. She tells him she's going to force the nurses to let him see Zayn eventually, once he's out of the clear completely, once he's in a room. He thanks her and is about to say goodbye, when she hits him with a doozy.  
  
"Harry, thank you for taking care of him. I'm glad you were there," she says, finally choking up. "I'm so glad he has you."  
  
Harry doesn't have the heart to tell her that Zayn doesn't have him, and that he doesn't have Zayn, either.

  
  
***

  
Harry can't see him yet, and it turns out "eventually" won't be any time soon. Trisha said she'd be firm with the nurses, but they haven't budged. So he continues his pacing around the waiting room, wringing his hands.  
  
He hears Niall before he sees him, hears the squeak of his Nikes on the tile, down the hall from the waiting area. He knows it's him, can sense him. Harry jerks his head up and like a goddamn movie, Niall runs towards him in a truly awful pair of sweatpants and a backwards tshirt, face reddened, hair a mess, huffing breath. He doesn't even stop when he gets to Harry, he just continues the forward momentum until his entire body is against Harry's. They both nearly topple over.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Niall whispers into his ear, over and over, not unlike Harry's _I'm fine_ chant, practically squeezing the very breath out of his lungs. "I'm sorry, Harry. I'm really sorry. I'm here."  
  
"Ni, I'm so fucking sorry," he sobs out, into his neck. "I'm really fucking sorry. I was such an asshole. I'm so sorry."  
  
They don't let go, they keep repeating the same words over and over, holding on for dear life. Niall runs his hands through his hair, tries to shush him. But then something washes over Harry and he has to get it out. He pulls away from Niall just enough so he can see his face, so Niall can see that he's telling the truth.  
  
"I didn't do it, Ni. I swear, I wasn't drunk, I wasn't a mess, I wasn't spiraling. I was just there because Danny called me," he says, as Niall already starts shaking his head to shut him up. "I was trying to get over it, Ni. I swear. I'm not spiraling anymore, I stopped. I'm sorry." He feels frantic with it, like he can't get the words out fast enough.  
  
Niall just pulls him back in and whispers, "I know, Haz. I know. You're okay, you're okay. It's okay now. I'm sorry. I'm here."  
  
They keep repeating themselves, they don't let go.  
  
Niall eventually mumbles into his neck, "I got you, Hazza. I'm not leaving again."  
  
Harry cries harder.

  
  
***

  
They don't let Harry see him until the next morning. He'd spent the entire night in the waiting room with Niall and Danny, a few other friends of Zayn's he didn't know. After Danny made a call, his manager and agent also show up, first thing, and the two stern women spend most of the time talking to doctors.

They all sit drinking shitty coffee, barely speaking, too deep in their own thoughts. Niall doesn't let go of Harry's hand the whole time.  
  
When the nurses finally say Zayn can have a visitor or two, they look around at each other, unmoving.  
  
But they know, all silently agree, and Niall nudges Harry up and out of his chair. So he follows the nurse and tries not to vomit on the floor.  
  
When he walks in, Zayn's asleep in the bed, head tucked to the side. Harry knows he gets cold and he wishes the nurses would see he needs another blanket. He almost snarls it to the woman who walked him in, but she has already backed out of the room to leave him be.  
  
Harry is afraid to wake him, but he needs to touch. So he sits in the chair next to his bed and reaches for his right hand. It feels cold and Harry hates it, wants to huff his breath onto it to warm it up some. Instead he gently lays it on the bed, palm side up, and leans down, rests his cheek there and closes his eyes. He kisses the inside of Zayn's wrist as he settles in, nuzzles his face against his palm. He allows himself this, let's himself have it.  
  
He must've fallen asleep because all of a sudden he feels fingers moving around his ear, tickling him. He leans into it for a moment, nuzzles his cheek some more, kisses his palm. But then he jolts awake and sits up so he can see Zayn's face.  
  
Zayn is laying there with his head still to the side, with a bandage around it, staring at him.  
  
"Hey Haz," he croaks out.  
  
Hurriedly he says, "Do you need water? Does your throat hurt? What can I get you?"  
  
"M'good for now."  
  
Harry feels his eyes welling up. He knows his lip is trembling and he probably looks like a cartoon version of himself. He knows his face is red, his hair a dirty mess. He shakes his head as he grabs Zayn's hand, silently telling himself to pull it together.  
  
"M'not dying, Hazza. Stop," he says in a low voice, with the hint of a smile.  
  
Harry just stares at him. "I know. I know," as he furiously nods. And then, "But you didn't hear the sound."

He cries then, really cries. He leans his face into the blankets by Zayn's thigh and cries some more. Zayn runs his hand through his hair, along his neck, scratches his scalp.

It's as he's crying, as he buries his head further and further into the blankets that he hears Zayn whisper, "Thanks for being there. And in case I've never said it, thanks for all of it."  
  
Harry tries to smile, which helps him pull it together somewhat, so he eventually looks up at him again. He doesn't know how much time they have, before they kick him out, or let Danny in, or come in for paperwork or something. So Harry gifts him with the shreds of his snake shirt, which makes Zayn laugh.

Then they talk about random topics, in hushed tones, Harry asking question after question, as they laugh a little.  
  
(For the record, his middle name is Javadd. His favorite color is black. He doesn't have a favorite literary character, but he loves the book _Goodnight Moon_ because his dad used to read it to him. His sisters' names are Doniya, Waliyha, and Safaa. He's Muslim. He pulled the quotes for the wall from various books already on Harry's shelf. And he fucking loves movie theater popcorn.)

 

  
***

  
The next time Harry goes into his room, it's later that night, close to the end of visiting hours. He knew he couldn't be selfish, knew other people wanted to see him too. He briefly saw what looked to be a police officer go in once. But Harry had to come back. He only went home to shower and change, to bring Zayn some thick socks. Harry could sense how chilly the room was, and he knew Zayn must hate it. He's about to walk into Zayn's room when he notices Niall and Danny at the end of the hall, talking close, in a hushed conversation. Harry knows that'll be a situation to deal with later, whatever it is. He senses their eyes on the back of his head as he walks into Zayn's room.  
  
When he sits down at his bedside again, Zayn looks exhausted, despondent, vacant.  
  
"I brought you socks."  
  
"Oh, thanks. That's a good idea," he says taking them from him. He sets them next to his side though, and doesn't attempt to put them on.  
  
Harry stares at him. Zayn's all inside his head and would probably be running out the door right now, had he not been stuck to machines.  
  
"When can you leave?"  
  
"Soon."  
  
"Is your mom flying out? Your family?"  
  
"No, none of them can miss work. But it's fine, I'd be too fucking embarrassed to see them all anyways," he says, turning his head away from Harry, looking out the window as the sun sets. Harry continues to sit with him, quiet for once in his life, and let's the air settle, let's Zayn figure out what's going on inside his head.  
  
"A cop came by, gave me a citation for the coke. I have to pay fines and shit, probably have to take a class on drug dependency or something. And the guy who pushed me, they're pressing charges against him."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
They continue to sit, Zayn still not looking at him. Harry doesn't know where he's going with all this, if he's admitting what he did, admitting defeat, admitting his issues. Or if he's stating the facts and secretly thinks the whole thing is bullshit. Harry sighs, crosses his arms on the bed by Zayn's thighs, and leans on them, resting his head for the first time in what feels like days.  
  
"They're talking about us, you know. Danny and Niall. They were in here earlier, I heard them whispering about needing to talk," Zayn says, no emotion in his voice.  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, I figured."  
  
"They're probably going to make us talk shit out."  
  
"What do we need to talk about, Zayn?" Harry says, giving him a knowing look. Maybe Zayn will admit how he feels, or doesn't feel, or wants to feel. Maybe he's about to tell him everything.  
  
Zayn finally turns his head and looks Harry in the eye. He distinctly shrugs his shoulders. Harry sighs, knowing they're not about to lay it all out, not here, not yet. Zayn can't do it like this. He knows Zayn is pulling away, again. He knows Zayn won't give him anything. So Harry relents.   
  
"Zayn. Let's be honest with each other, yeah? Like just about little things, okay? Not the big things, those can wait. But the little things are starting to build up in my head and I can't hold them all in anymore," he says, sniffling slightly. "Honest, yeah?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
Harry takes a deep breath, lets himself think for a moment. "When I first saw you in the courtyard, I knew you looked familiar. And then after we talked, and I learned your first name, Niall and I looked at your IMDb page. I looked at the random episode photos and your head shots for like four hours. And then I watched every episode of TV you've ever done."  
  
Zayn gives a small smile.  
  
Harry smiles into his arm, remembering how creepy he thought he was.  
  
"Remember the morning you took care of me, after Halloween?" Harry nods. "That book you found on the table, the book I found you reading, do you remember it?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah I remember it. I had been meaning to read it forever. My mom sent me a copy."  
  
"I saw it on your bookshelf, near the top. It looked new so I figured you had read it, or were going to read it. I wanted to read it too, so I could talk about it if you ever brought it up, so you would think I was smart. I stole that copy from a girl in my acting class when she wasn't looking. I still haven't read it though."  
  
Harry smiles into his arm again.  
  
"The day after we first hooked up, the day you came to the door and I looked fine, I wasn't fine. Niall had to talk me down off a ledge, to help me not fall into a hole," he says, no longer smiling.  
  
Zayn stares at him, blank faced. "I heard your fight with Niall. I heard the fight even from downstairs. And when he yelled at my door, I heard it all." He takes a breath. "I cried after that. I really cried. It was the first time in a long time."  
  
Harry grabs his hand then, and holds on tight. They stare at each other for a few seconds, Harry's head still resting on his arm. He feels like he's about to cry now, but he holds it in. It seems like they come to the same conclusion at the same time: they need to talk about a lot more, but neither want to. Harry's tired. Zayn's exhausted. They'll get to it eventually, when things feel calmer.  
  
That's enough honesty for one day.

  
  
***

  
They both fell asleep, clutching their hands together. A nurse comes in to tell them visiting hours are over soon, so they need to say goodbye. Harry gets up and stretches while Zayn drinks the juice by his bed. Harry notices Zayn is trying to look away from him every time he tries to catch his eye. He's about to leave when the door opens, and in walk Danny and Niall, somber looks on their faces.  
  
The room feels heavy, quiet. No one talks for a moment, but Harry knows they're about to say something, something tough.  
  
"So," Niall starts, shuffling his feet. "We were talking earlier. And we came up with something."  
  
"Yeah, and we think you both need to hear it," Danny says, voice much steadier than it was at the bar. He seems like a completely different person now, fierce and sure of himself.  
  
"You both need a break from each other. Whatever you've been doing is unhealthy and it needs to stop," Niall says with an air of finality. "Zayn, your mom wants you to stay with your cousins in Santa Clarita for a bit, so you can get back on your feet. Danny's going to go with you. And Harry, you're going to come stay with me for a while."  
  
Harry feels his head fall, his chin dropping to his chest. He could fight this, could tell Niall he's a fucking adult, that this is stupid. He wants to yell at them both for making decisions for him, for telling him what he needs.  
  
But it's no use, because they're right.  
  
Since the day they met, all Harry and Zayn have done is push and pull each other, in the wrong directions, at all the wrong times.  
  
And he knows, he feels it: they're both really fucking tired.

He also knows that a break means they won't actually talk about the big things after all. Not anytime soon.  
  
Harry lifts his head and looks at Zayn. They both know it, they feel it. It's time for a break. Zayn stares back at him and Harry sees his chin trembling, his eyes glossing over. So Harry nods his head, admitting defeat, and walks over to him. He leans down as Zayn leans up, and they hug, holding on tight. Harry doesn't even try to hide the fact that he's crying, that he's getting Zayn's shoulder all wet.  
  
So Harry whispers in his ear, "Be good, okay? I'll see you real soon."  
  
"Okay, Hazza. I'll see you," Zayn whispers back, grabbing the back of his head, his voice wet. "Be safe, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
As he leans back, Harry quickly plants a kiss on his forehead, right near the place Zayn once cut himself on their orange tree. And without looking back, Harry walks out of the room, Niall close behind.

  
  
***

  
Niall gives him three days. He lets Harry cry, and wallow, and bury himself in his bed for three days. Never let it be said that Niall can't get his way, because he told Jay that Harry needed Friday off because of an emergency, and also Monday off, just fucking because. And Jay went for it, so that was something.  
  
Harry doesn't shower, he doesn't eat the food Niall leaves for him, and he doesn't look at his phone. He just lays there in Niall's bedroom for three days, knowing that the world is turning without him and not caring. He's not conscious often, but when he is, he sometimes hears Niall on the phone with his mom, with Gemma. Even with Danny a few times, if you can believe it.  
  
Harry thinks he deserves this, the utter pain of losing someone he loves, because except for his father, he's never had to before. Maybe he was lucky to have made it this far in life without having to do this, to lose someone. He wonders how Zayn is doing, if he's healing, if he's getting the help he needs. He wonders how Jem is, wonders if Niall knows to go water him, if he's doing it often enough. His misses his apartment, his little studio, with all his books. He thinks of his blue wall and the big typewriter in the middle of it, and he cries again.  
  
But then on Tuesday morning, Niall comes in and climbs into bed with him, wrapping his arms around his torso, squeezing, holding on tight, touching their foreheads together. It's that shock to the system again, the shock Harry apparently needs. Because it feels like his nerve endings reawaken, his blood finally starts to circulate again. So he squeezes Niall right back.  
  
Niall nudges him to the shower, he makes him toast, and they go to work.

  
  
***

  
Harry has been at Niall's for going on three weeks when he finally asks the question that's been on his mind ever since he left Zayn's hospital room, the question he knows Niall's asked Danny over the phone a few times.  
  
"So," he starts, as they eat pizza on Niall's living room floor, the TV on a low volume. "How is he doing? Really?"  
  
Niall takes a drink of his water, before leaning over and grabbing the crust from Harry's plate, the crust he knows Harry never eats. He doesn't answer right away. But when he does, he very carefully says, "He's okay. He's trying, I guess."  
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
"Haz," he says in a warning tone.  
  
"Tell me."  
  
"It's just… sometimes when a person gets a concussion, it takes a while for them to figure it all out again. He's just really angry. He's angry at himself, I think most of all. But he's mad about other stuff, too. He stopped drinking, for the most part... I think. But he's still pissed. I don't know all the details."  
  
Harry stares down at his hands, feeling like the food is rising back in his throat. He knows Niall doesn't want to talk about Zayn. He knows Niall thinks this break needs to be a permanent break. He knows Niall wants him to move out of the building, or move back in with him, move somewhere else. Leave once and for all.  
  
Niall interrupts his thoughts then, and leans in. "Harry, I'm only going to say this once, okay? And then I'm not going to say it again. Because you don't need to hear this from me a thousand times, or anyone else, because it won't make a difference. You need to feel it, fucking _believe it_ , for yourself, once and for all, okay?"  
  
"Okay," he says, nervousness lining his voice.  
  
"Sometimes people are broken, and you can't fix them. You can't fix anyone until you fix yourself first."  
  
Niall grabs his forearm, squeezes once, and then turns back to the TV, leaving him with his thoughts.

  
  
***

  
A week later, while Niall is in the shower after a long day at the office, Harry sees a text on Niall's phone from Danny, telling him that Zayn is home, that he left his cousin's house and is back at his apartment.  
  
So Harry grabs his keys and walks out the door.  
  
Harry lives in opposites, is the thing. As he drives back to his building, he thinks about the first time he felt depressed over Zayn Malik, after seeing the girl leaving that morning, and yet he still walked into Zayn's apartment anyways, even though he knew it wouldn't end well. He thinks about how he always went back to Zayn, even after Zayn continually and relentlessly pushed him away. Zayn gave him presents and watered his plant and made up his wall, but when it counted, when it _mattered_ , Zayn did nothing, never told him how he felt, never gave him a fucking inch.  
  
Harry gave him everything, threw his entire life at Zayn, and Zayn never gave anything back.  
  
Zayn drank. He drank a lot. And even when Harry was there to pick up the pieces, he never gave anything back.  
  
So Harry wonders, on that drive, what the hell he's even doing. He can feel it, the spiral, the mania, the feelings start to overwhelm him. He knows, it's either going to be the highest high again, or the lowest low, and it scares the ever living shit out of him. But he drives home anyways.  
  
He needs to hear it, out loud, at least once.

  
  
***

  
Harry walks through the gate and into the courtyard. He looks up at his door with the brass 10 and wonders if he should go up there, or just walk straight to Zayn's. He knows it's no use, that either way, they'll meet and it'll be like two hurricanes converging into one, yet again, blasting the coast line like they always do. So he walks to Zayn's door and doesn't even knock, he just lets himself in.  
  
Zayn is sleeping in his bed, curled in a ball on his side, under a mountain of covers. He looks as beautiful as always, and Harry wants nothing more than to climb into bed with him and curl over his body, the same urge as always. So Harry finally does it.  
  
He takes off his jeans and hoodie, slips under the blanket and lays his head behind Zayn's. He wraps his arms around him, and pulls him close. He breathes in his scent, the same signature smell that's all Zayn, and presses his lips right below his hairline. Zayn's body must sense him because he falls back into him, let's Harry hold him tighter.  
  
Harry feels him start to move a little, until finally he hears, "Hey Haz," in an almost whisper.  
  
"Hey."  
  
"Why are you here?"  
  
"Because you are."  
  
Zayn turns to him then, rolls over to face him. They look at each other, for the first time in weeks. It feels like he in equal measures forgot what Zayn looked like, and also sees a face he'd memorized so many times before, a face he could never forget. He can't help himself, so he leans in and presses his lips to Zayn's. They each exhale the breaths they didn't even know they were holding.  
  
It's different from every other time, softer, gentler. They don't bite or suck bruises into skin, they don't tug hair. They don't push, or pull, or shake each others' foundations. And when Zayn enters him, Harry doesn't cry out, he instead sighs with relief. They don't stop or slow down, they move together in a delicious harmony until Harry comes on his stomach, with Zayn following right after, gripping each others' shoulders, so they don't float away. Zayn kisses Harry's neck, Harry runs his hands up and down Zayn's back.

For about a second, it's perfect.  
  
In the afterglow, as Zayn pulls out and throws the condom into the trash, as he wipes Harry's stomach off with a tshirt, Harry thinks this is the first time they ever _really_ connected, on a level he didn't even know possible. What they just did was so entirely different, he doesn't know if they'll ever be able to go back to their rougher beginnings. He thinks things are finally about to change, and that even though they haven't talked about the big stuff, or figured anything out, Zayn is here, he's sober, he's present. And what they did was different, it just was, Harry could _feel it._

So Harry says it. He says it right as Zayn settles back into bed with him, with Zayn's face on his neck.  
  
"I love you, Zayn. I think I loved you the first time I saw you," he sighs out, closing his eyes. He feels high.  
  
Zayn stills. His body tenses.  
  
Harry feels it, it feels wrong, something crashes. Something's wrong and he immediately tries to grasp at it, grasp at Zayn before he can get up or walk away. He scrambles to hold on, he grabs his arm, just as Zayn stands up.  
  
"What did you just say?"  
  
Harry's jaw literally drops. "What?"  
  
"Why would you say that, Harry? Why would you say that now?"  
  
"What are you talking about? I had to say it. Zayn, I had to. This was different, didn't you feel it?"  
  
"This was us finally saying goodbye, Harry. Jesus Christ," he huffs out, as he walks away from the bed, towards the couch, grabbing his jeans and stuffing his legs into them. "You're supposed to be smarter than this."  
  
Harry shakes his head furiously, to the point it almost hurts. He feels like a dog after getting out of a freezing cold lake, shaking the excess water, back and forth, because he can't believe he's hearing it. He feels the anger bubbling in his chest, threatening to spill over. He can't believe this is happening. Again.  
  
So he stands up and gets dressed quickly, grabbing his shoes. It's bubbling, it's coming up, he's not going to be able to stop it.  
  
"Fuck you, Zayn. Fuck you," he says, looking him in the eye. "I want you to know that I fucking hate you. Forget what I just said. Because I could _never_ love a miserable piece of shit like you."  
  
Harry throws open the door and stomps across the courtyard to the stairs. He stomps up those too, stomps to his door, and stomps once he's inside. But because the world is really fucking unfair, Zayn comes stomping in after him. Harry turns to see him walk in, steam practically coming out of his ears, hands clenched into fists.  
  
"So I'm the miserable piece of shit here? _I'm_ miserable? Really, Harry? That's rich, coming from _you_ , of all people."  
  
"You're so fucking miserable, you can't even see yourself!"  
  
"Says the asshole who can't get out of his bed when someone hurts his feelings," he spits at him, shaking his head.  
  
Harry has never wanted to punch someone so badly in his life, and had Zayn not recently been concussed, he would have. He literally has to turn his body away and walk towards the blue wall so he doesn't lash out and physically hurt him.  
  
"Just so this is perfectly clear to you later, when you actually fucking think back on this," Harry says, back still turned away, "you're the one who fucked this up, Zayn. I just told you I loved you and _you_ fucked this up. I hope it eats you alive, I hope it fucking tears you a part, because this is it." He turns to face him now, chin trembling. "This is it. I'm done with you."  
  
"I lost the show," he says, voice shaking, as if Harry hadn't even spoken.  
  
"What?"  
  
"They cut me from the show, they said I was a liability, that I'm an addict and they need to recast the part and reshoot the scenes I've filmed. They fired me. And now I don't know what I'm going to do if it all goes away, if I can't do this anymore. I'm not good at anything else."  
  
Harry just stares at him. He can barely speak.  
  
"You're the most selfish person I have ever met," he says finally, as the first tear falls.  
  
"Don't you _dare_ fucking cry right now!" Zayn screams, right as Harry loses it, as his face crumples in anguish. He tries to wipe at his face, tries to hide the evidence, as Zayn's anger level rises beside him. But it doesn't do him any good, he can't hide it. "Just STOP, Harry!"  
  
And it's as the heavy books from his desk are flying through the air, like they're in slow motion, that Harry remembers what Niall said. That after a concussion, some people become angrier, more volatile. Harry realizes Zayn still hasn't figured himself out yet, he hasn't even tried. His problems were still there, alcohol or not. And instead of pushing Harry away with his words this time, he actually grabbed for something real, something he could hold, throw, something he could ruin.  
  
So Harry watches the books soar, float in the air almost like a flock of birds, while thinking of his own problems and how they've always been there too. His depression has gotten worse since Zayn arrived in his life, he knows that. Harry recognizes it. Zayn is an addict and he's gotten worse as well. Harry recognizes that too.  
  
When the books finally hit the wall, crashing into the large framed photo of the typewriter, and the smaller ones around it, holding quotes and pictures and inspiration, Harry understands what Niall told him in his living room last week. _Sometimes people are broken, and you can't fix them. You can't fix anyone until you fix yourself first._

Harry finally gets it.

Harry is broken. Zayn is broken. They're two broken people with two broken lives, who had tried to run from themselves, but they accidentally crashed into each other, and kept crashing, like some fucked up game of bumper cars. They can't fix themselves and they can't fix each other.

It's almost laughable that just minutes ago, Harry thought they were going to be fine, be together, be happy. They've never been happy. How could they possibly start now?  
  
The frames fall to the floor, glass flies all around them. When it all finally settles, when the noise stops, that's when Harry knows.  
  
He knows then, like he's never known before, that it's over.

  
  
***

  
Later, when it's darker out, Harry and Zayn sit with their backs against the bookshelf, staring at the damage on the wall opposite them. Some of the books scratched the blue paint, a frame hangs lopsided, glass cracked, still on the wall. More frames and glass litter the floor. It's oddly quiet.  
  
They continue to stare at the physical destruction of who they are, what they are, who they've allowed themselves to become.  
  
And just like every other situation since they've known each other, Zayn's first. He finally speaks and says in a low voice, "All we've ever been, since we met, are crutches. We bring out the worst in each other. We let this happen. We did this to ourselves."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"I don't know how not to be angry. It's like I can't stop. I'm angry _all the time_."  
  
"I know. I'm sad all the time and I can't stop either," Harry hears himself say, his voice dead, lifeless.  
  
"I think we need help. For real."  
  
"I know we do," Harry sighs, closing his eyes to the mayhem around them.  
  
"But just so you know… I knew I loved you the first time I saw you, too," Zayn says, voice wobbling. Harry hears him crying now, as he says, "I knew I loved you the moment you asked me to talk to a plant and I actually fucking did it. And I know for a fact this will eat me alive and tear me a part, probably for the rest of my life. I know that. I just never wanted to pull you into my fucked up life, I swear. I wanted you, I wanted you _so_ badly, but I wanted you to stay away from me more, so I tried to push you. I'm a really shitty person. And I'm sorry," he finishes, wiping at his face.  
  
"I'm sorry too. I knew you were trying to push me, I knew it every single time. But I wouldn't let you, I held too tight. I pushed back," he says, as he cries too.  
  
And then the gravity, or magnetism, or whatever the fuck is between them takes over and suddenly they're holding hands, one last time.  
  
They stare at the wall some more, and after the most honest conversation they've ever had, they both shut up.

  
  
***

  
When Harry gets back to Niall's apartment, Niall looks like he's about to murder him. He walks out of his bedroom as he hears the front door, staring daggers at Harry, about to unleash a whole load of _what the fuck were you thinking?_ and _how could you go see him?_  
  
But he sees Harry's face, sees that it's blank. So he stops.  
  
"Haz?"  
  
"Don't worry, Ni. It's done. It's all done."  
  
Niall stares at him, at a loss for words. He doesn't know what to do. Finally his brain must send the signal that Harry needs him, that Harry needs his arms tightly around his chest, needs Niall just like he always does, when Harry holds his hands up to stop him.  
  
Harry has let Niall carry his burdens for too long. He's let Niall try to fix him and it still hasn't worked. It's not working anymore.  
  
So instead of falling into Niall's arms, Harry does the opposite.

He simply says, "I think I need help."

  
  
***

  
So now you know. That's what happens when two hurricanes collide.

And that's how they finally separate.  
  
They didn't start with a crash, but they sure ended with one.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

 

_TWO YEARS LATER…_

 

  
  
"So, Harry," Shannon says as she crosses her pant suit-covered legs, holding her pad of paper and pen. "Where would you say you're at today? This week?"  
  
Harry leans back in the chair he's come to know so well, the chair he swears has form fitted to his ass perfectly, thinking. "You know, I think I'm actually about a seven today, if you can believe it."  
  
"A seven, that's great. Why a seven? Tell me about your day."  
  
"I don't know, I just woke up this morning and thought it was going to be a good day, and it has been. Niall and I ate lunch at our favorite shitty Chinese place by work, and my team has submitted so much great content lately. My mom and sister are coming for their visit soon, so the week is probably a seven for me too. It just seems like things are good, you know?"  
  
"That's fantastic, Harry," she says, scribbling the notes she loves to scribble. "I'm glad things are still going so well."  
  
"Me too," he says, smiling.

  
  
***

On his walk home, Harry couldn't help but smile.

He was a seven and he smiled like he'd never stop.

Because if you had told Harry two years ago that he'd be a seven or higher on Shannon's colloquial Happiness Scale today, he would've knocked you to the ground. Because once Harry and Niall surveyed the damage of his little studio a few days after the last battle, Harry figured it would be decades before he'd be able to smile again.  
  
But Niall Horan would have none of that, and while Harry admitted to him that he needed help, real help, help beyond the help a best friend can give, Niall was still a planner. He was still smart as all hell, so he put a plan into motion.  
  
Niall made sure Danny kept Zayn at his place for a few weeks, while they cleaned up the mess Harry and Zayn had so haphazardly spewed on and around Harry's life.  
  
Harry broke his lease and told the landlord he was moving out in a week's time. The landlord then told Harry to paint the blue wall back to white, as per the leasing agreement, and Harry resolutely told him to go fuck himself. Harry knows himself well, and he knew he would never in his life be able to stand in that room and paint, or watch someone else paint that wall. He knew because the last time he really looked at the wall was when he and Zayn finally stood up from their seated position at the bookshelf, crowded against each other in the middle of the room, and hugged each other so hard, cried so forcefully together, that Harry needed to lean against it as Zayn walked out the door for the last time. He stared at it as he listened to Zayn's feet run down the stairs and into his apartment. He dry heaved so much, he threw up before going back to Niall's that night.  
  
So he gave up his entire deposit by doing so, but there you have it.  
  
Niall worked his magic and got them relocated to the New York office. Just like when Harry moved to LA, if he was being honest with himself, he never thought he could do it, move to New York, move away, move on. But he knew it was time. He told himself he'd still be on a coast, still be in a city. And Niall was going to be there every step of the way, because he's Niall, and when Niall said he wasn't leaving him again, he meant it.  
  
The other thing Harry couldn't do was look at or move Jem, big, huge Jem, because even though it was irrational to get attached to a fucking plant, it was still Jem, their Jem, the one thing Harry took care of on his own, the thing Zayn said made him fall in love with Harry. So Niall had to be the one to deliver it, as a going away gift, to their office's waiting room. Their LA coworkers promised to look after him, to water him, and to talk to him, because they knew Harry was ridiculous, but it was part of his charm, so. How could they not?  
  
The last time Harry was at their building, after the last piece of furniture was sold, he carried a heavy box down the stairs and allowed himself a final look at the door with the brass 3, only for a moment, as a few tears fell. And even though he knew Zayn wasn't inside, that Danny was going to make Zayn move too, he still wanted to run in there and see it one last time.  
  
He didn't. He just walked out the front gate and left.

  
  
***

  
It turns out Harry Styles can do just fine in New York, despite what he thought before. He decided a long time ago, about the time he watched a human being get thrown through a window, that drinking wasn't really that interesting anymore. And once you decide that, living in New York is easy. He actually slept well, he ate his vegetables, he ran in the park.  
  
He also started therapy.  
  
Niall set it all up before they even got to their new apartment in Brooklyn, had Dr. Shannon Sampson at the ready, made sure it was covered through work's insurance plan. He sat in the waiting room during Harry's first session. And while that should've made Harry feel like a child all over again, it actually grounded him while he talked to his new therapist for the first time.  
  
Shannon didn't want to know about Zayn at first, as it was decided early on after their first initial conversations that Harry's pain and sadness go so far back, farther back than even he realized, so she made them start at the beginning.  
  
Harry told her about faking swallowing a penny after his dad left, and well, that was about a month's worth of conversation right there.  
  
During this time, you could never say that Harry was _unhappy_ , per se, but you couldn't say that he was jumping for joy either. But Harry had learned that he didn't need to live in opposites so much anymore, in either light or dark, happy or sad, good or bad. Not every decision or pickle in life had to be polar opposites, with opposite outcomes, a good outcome or a bad outcome. Sometimes you can live in the grey while you figure it out, look at a situation or question and choose neither, choose both, while you work through the thoughts in your head. So if that meant he just went to work, talked to Shannon, and explored the city with his best friend, it was good enough.  
  
Shannon also thought it was important for Harry to see his family more, so she talked to Anne on the phone a few times about it. It was decided that his mom and Gemma would come see him, instead of him flying home, because he needed to get his life settled in the city, in his new home. So they visited him at least once every few months, swirling into his life and apartment in a cloud of perfume and estrogen so strong, it felt like Harry was fifteen all over again, bombarded with Styles women and their crazy chatter. But it was good, he needed them more than he realized.  
  
And if he had to be completely honest, looking back on his beginnings in New York, that early time of figuring his shit out, it wasn't too bad, considering. There were days he didn't want to get up, days he spent angry or crying in his bed, days he did nothing but think of Zayn's face, his iris freckle, his smell, the way he sometimes held Harry when he slept, the sound he made when he came. And those days were ones, twos, threes. Those were bad days.  
  
But he learned to let those days pass, to get a good night's sleep after them, and try again the next morning. He no longer wanted to be the person who said _fuck it_ and kicked the remedy to fix himself to the curb.  
  
Niall always made sure to check on him, either way. Because Niall lived his life in eights, nines, and tens, and Harry wanted that. He wanted to get there too.  
  
It took a while, but Shannon made him deal with the fact that Harry couldn't always blame himself for pushing Zayn, that Zayn let him. But he also needed to accept that Zayn told Harry numerous times, in his own way, that he needed to let him be, that he needed to let him go. Zayn had problems of his own and he didn't know how to handle them, just like Harry didn't know how to handle his. She said they were both responsible for their heartache. And even though Harry spent some sessions pacing around her office, crying and yelling that Zayn was a fucking asshole, that Zayn ruined him for every man he'll ever meet, he learned he had to forgive Zayn, forgive himself, and move on.  
  
They were both broken and both unprepared for the other to show up. They self destructed, but they ended up alive and on the other side, just apart.  
  
So on the days when Harry's heart ached for Zayn, he reminded himself of how Zayn talked to Jem, how he fixed his wall in the first place, how he thanked Harry for being there with him in the hospital. He thought of the days they spent reading lines, laughing together, joking. He let those thoughts envelope him and give him a hug.  
  
Those were the good days, or at the very least, solid fives and sixes.

  
  
***

  
  
Now that he's been living in New York for two years, he's almost always at a six or above. He only sees Shannon once a week instead of three, he runs through the park, he goes out with his coworkers for dinner. They go to comedy clubs, attend concerts, he meets the girl Niall met at Starbucks, the girl Niall can't take his eyes off of. Harry smiled when the three of them first had lunch together, because she seems like she lives in eights, nines, and tens too, and Niall needs someone like that in his life.  
  
And as it turned out, Harry never _actually_ wanted to write a novel.  
  
Somewhere along the way of picking up the pieces after he and Zayn imploded, Harry realized something important. Whenever he wanted something in life, truly wanted it, he got it. He seized it, grabbed for it, pushed at it until it gave way. He made sure of it. So the fact that he never even _tried_ to write a novel, never had a solid idea, never got the right inspiration for one, spoke volumes. Shannon said it to him best: just because you're an English major and love grammar doesn't mean you have to be an author. So he very quickly realized he needed to focus his attention elsewhere and find his passion.  
  
Luckily, that "elsewhere" came in the form of the job he already had. He wasn't lying when he told people he mostly loved his job, because he liked the people, the pace, the lifestyle of being a writer for a hot, new website that everyone and their brother were posting about on Facebook. And after talking it over with his bosses, they decided to harness Harry's abilities once and for all.  
  
Harry now runs an entire section of the website dedicated to advice columns and articles that deal with substance abuse, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, as well as LGTBQ issues for teens. He runs a team of people who write stories and pieces that actually help people, stories that moms send to their kids, stories teenagers show their parents to try and explain their feelings. Harry of course joked to Niall that if anyone on the planet should refrain from giving advice to people about handling their issues, it'd be him. But Niall waved his hand at him, squashing the very thought.  
  
"You're a work in progress, Haz. You might be a work in progress for a long time, who knows. But I don't want someone who's figured it all out to tell me what to do, I want the guy who still has to work at it, to help me figure myself out along with him."  
  
That Niall Horan can be pretty smart, so Harry kissed his cheek for that one, and ruffled his hair.

  
  
***

  
Harry gets back to their apartment after his session with Shannon to find Niall sitting on the couch, eating what looks to be a sandwich the size of a small child. When he sees Harry eyeing him in disgust, as they had almost eaten their weight in Chinese food just a few hours before, he shrugs, rips off a chunk of it and hands it to him. Harry shrugs too (why beat 'em when you can join 'em?) and sits down next to him.  
  
They eat for a few minutes, but Harry can tell Niall has something on his mind.  
  
He sets down the food and turns to him, sighing. "What is it?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Tell me, out with it."  
  
Niall sighs then too, and pushes his laptop on the coffee table into Harry's lap. The front page of Deadline has a photo of Zayn Malik, a recent head shot where he looks older, more rugged, handsome. The post says Zayn landed a huge part in a new AMC drama pilot and the blogs and comment sections are already going crazy over it.  
  
When everything happened two years ago, Zayn was relatively unknown. Sure, there was a brief story about a recurring character on a CW show being replaced after a few episodes were shot, because the actor had "emotional issues" to deal with, which was true, but that was it. After the producers let Zayn go, his manager and agent asked him to go to rehab. Niall and Danny still texted every so often (because they had an unspoken bond, being the bystanders of the hurricane collision, the best friends who felt powerless for so long) so Harry knows the bare minimum of what happened. Apparently in the end, Zayn _wanted_ to go to rehab, wanted to get better, which can be the biggest hurdle of all.  
  
After rehab, he got right back into the swing of things, did a few small parts in TV shows, did a pilot that never went anywhere, a Tom Hooper movie that did pretty well. He worked over the years consistently, and Harry isn't ashamed to say that he followed along from afar, proud that Zayn did it, that he never had to find anything else to be good at after all.  
  
The big role he had was in a miniseries for HBO, where he played the single gay son with children, in a family ensemble that featured Meryl Streep as his step mother. It was a huge part, it put him on the map for a lot of Hollywood execs. Apparently people loved that an openly gay actor got to play such an important gay role on such a large scale. He was interviewed for numerous magazines about it. He even got to do Letterman because of it. And Harry also isn't ashamed to say that when he watched that night, as Zayn walked out in a gorgeous black suit, to thunderous applause, where he got made fun of by David Letterman, he cried into his sweater for three hours. They were tears of joy.  
  
So when he sees the Deadline announcement, he looks questioningly at Niall.  
  
"This is really good for him, Ni. This is amazing."  
  
"I know," he says, taking the laptop back. "I just wanted to show you now, because if this goes through, if AMC picks up the pilot to series, if it does as well as they say, he's going to be everywhere. He'll be everywhere, Haz. So we just have to prepare, is all."  
  
"Niall, I love you. But it doesn't matter if I went to the fucking moon, Zayn Malik would still be everywhere to me."  
  
Harry smiles at Niall, to let him know he's fine, that he'll be okay, regardless of if he has to see Zayn's face on billboards across the city. Zayn's presence in his heart, in his mind, in his life, always sort of hovers in the back ground, like white noise. It's always there, he's just learned to tune it out most days. And he's fine with it.  
  
Because if the last two years have taught him anything at all, he really is fine.  
  
And it's a great fucking feeling.

  
  
***

  
Niall, per usual, is completely right, because once AMC picks up Zayn's show and commits it to series, Zayn is everywhere. He's officially a leading man. The buzz surrounding the project is huge, the producers are well known in the business, and Harry knows how the media blitz works. He knows they'll need to roll out Zayn and his image beforehand, to create even more chatter.  
  
He's on the cover of GQ that next month, and attends a few galas. The pictures are all over the internet. Harry knows the dangers of working in a newsroom, how it puts him right in the line of fire when it comes to seeing pictures and stories of Zayn Malik, so Niall usually whispers to him when something's about to hit, just in case.  
  
When Shannon asks how he's handling seeing Zayn more and more in the public eye, Harry very honestly tells her that he is so unbelievably happy for Zayn. And if the worst thing you can say about an ex, or whatever the hell Zayn was, is that he's so talented and attractive that the world wants more of him, well then you've done alright.  
  
She laughs at that. Because Shannon thinks Harry is funny, which is refreshing.  
  
The old Harry would've shut himself away, or turned off his phone, or drank himself stupid and fucked a stranger. But the new Harry looks at the billboards, sees the articles, and catches the interviews when he can, and smiles. Because he's trying to be a better person.

  
  
***

  
The first time they see each other in two years, Harry is walking with his coffee out of his favorite coffee place in Tribeca. It doesn't happen with a crash. He doesn't feel a chill go down his spine, he doesn't drop his cup like in some romantic comedy. In fact, they almost pass each other without a second glance.  
  
And Harry will deny this later, he swears he will, but the thing that made him stop on that busy corner was his smell. He had read once that the sense of smell is the sense most connected to memory. And as he stops, he distinctly smells Zayn and remembers the cologne he used to wear before auditions, the scent he used to want to rub his face in, when it covered Zayn's chest and mixed in perfectly with Zayn's natural scent.  
  
So he turns around and sees him. Zayn is standing there, in black jeans and a dark blue sweater, a black pea coat, one hand tucked in a pocket, and the other holding his phone. He's looking down at it, with a slight frown. His hair is longer, but just as perfectly styled, with a hint of stubble lining his jaw. He looks older, fuller, healthier. Just as Harry tries to decide what to do, if he should keep walking, or say his name, Zayn looks up and they lock eyes.  
  
"Harry?" he asks, in disbelief. They just stand there and stare, as New Yorkers bustle around them, a few giving them dirty looks. Neither of them move.  
  
"Zayn."  
  
The natural sounds of the city swirl between them, cars honk, people talk on their phones. And all Harry can hear is his heart pounding in his ears.  
  
And just like that, just like the first time he saw it, his knees almost buckle when Zayn's face splits into a massive grin, the one where his eyes almost disappear. People walking near them literally stop and stare at Zayn, his smile is that magnetic. He walks the few steps to Harry and grabs him in a hug.  
  
"Hey Haz, how are you?" he says into his shoulder, holding him tightly.  
  
Harry grips him in response, trying to not spill his coffee down Zayn's back and expensive coat, his voice caught in his throat, hearing Zayn use his nickname.  
  
"I'm good. I'm really, really good."  
  
"That's so good," he says genuinely, again into his shoulder  
  
So that's how they see each other, after two years, on a corner in Tribeca. That's where they stand for a long time, in a bone crushing hug that Harry doesn't know how to get out of.

  
  
***

  
Twenty minutes later, Harry finds himself sat in a restaurant across from Zayn, coats on the backs of their chairs, water glasses full, phones in their pockets. Neither of them can take their eyes off the other. Harry feels like he's seeing a ghost, an old friend, the love of his life, and an enemy all at once. It's too much to process. His head is starting to hurt.  
  
But Zayn just looks amused. He looks happy, giddy, excited that they ran into each other.  
  
Zayn, of course, speaks first.  
  
"This is really nice, to see you again, really," he says, smiling. "Tell me everything. Tell me how you are."  
  
Harry is at a loss for words. He doesn't know when his brain stopped sending the right signals to his mouth. So he takes the easy way out and says simply, "You first."  
  
It doesn't matter that it's been two years, Zayn knows him and knows he needs a minute. So he smiles and says, "Things are going really well. We've already shot the first season of the show, twelve episodes total, and they start running soon on AMC. I'm so excited for people to see them. We worked so hard."  
  
"That's really great, Zayn. Really, really great. I'm happy for you."  
  
"Thanks," he says, still smiling. Harry wonders if Zayn smiled this much before, or if this is a new development, a new version of Zayn he didn't get to see often.  
  
Harry knows it's his turn, so he bucks up. "I still work for the site, here in New York. But I actually don't just write small entertainment pieces anymore, I run the advice team now, where we write pieces to help people with their problems, share our own problems. So I like to think I'm doing some good in the world, helping people who need it," he smiles to himself, looking down at the table.  
  
"Harry, that is amazing. That is so fucking amazing. I'm so proud of you," Zayn says intensely, sincerely.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
"I knew you'd never write that book," he chuckles, as Harry snaps his head up to look at his face. He can't tell if that's an insult, or if Zayn's making fun of him.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
But Zayn just gives him a kind smile and says quietly, "Hazza, you only ever did what you wanted to do. When you wanted something, you took it, you know that." They stare at each other, neither looking away. "I always knew you _could_ write a book, I just never really thought you _wanted_ to. I figured you'd do something great though, something where you take care of people."  
  
Harry looks down at the table.  
  
Zayn continues, "I mean it, Haz. You always said how Niall took care of you, when really you took care of each other. And beyond that, you learned a lot from him. You take care of people in your own way," and then even quieter, "Like you took care of me."  
  
Harry shakes his head, "I never took care of you, Zayn. We never took care of each other the way we should've."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah, you're probably right. But we just didn't know how, you know?"  
  
"Yeah, I know."  
  
They look at each other after that, for a very long time.

  
  
***

  
That night when he lays in bed and replays their dinner in his mind, he doesn't know how he even did it. He was with Zayn, around Zayn, next to Zayn, for almost two hours and he did just fine. He's proud of himself, sure, for not being a mess about the whole thing, but he's also a little freaked out. If they didn't have that burning, intense passion, that need and want to rip into each other constantly, they clearly weren't the same people anymore.  
  
They were new and improved versions of themselves. They both could see it. So when they exchanged numbers and emails, it felt okay.  
  
Harry didn't hide it from Niall, he told him everything. And while Niall was initially weary, it was like he too could recognize that the Harry and Zayn from two years ago were dead and gone.

  
  
***

  
For the next month, Harry and Zayn text and call each other constantly. They send photos of things they see throughout the day, Harry in New York, Zayn in Los Angeles. They talk about work, their families, what other adventures they've done without each other.  
  
They text before they go to sleep every night. They haven't missed a _goodnight Hazza_ or a _goodnight Zayn_ since the day they had dinner.  
  
Shannon asks Harry point blank if he is still in love with Zayn. Harry audibly laughs out loud at the question.  
  
"Shan, if you think I could ever _not_ be in love with Zayn Malik, you haven't been listening."  
  
She nods and makes a note of it.  
  
But she also smiles.

  
  
***

  
"So you think I should go, really? Seriously, Niall. If you think this is a bad idea, I won't go. I really won't," Harry says, as he paces their living room, half dressed in the suit he needs to be fully dressed in, in about ten minutes' time.  
  
"Do you want to go?" Niall says, smiling from the couch.  
  
"I mean, I was invited, right? It was nice of him to invite me to his show's premiere party, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
"And like, we are both doing so well right now. We're not crazy, Niall. We're not messes. I don't spiral and I don't make a mess of people. He's sober. And whenever he has a thought, Ni, or something comes to his head that is important, he actually fucking _says it_. Out loud."  
  
Niall laughs to himself, "Yes, Hazza. That's a pretty big deal for him, you're right."  
  
Harry stops pacing and stands in front of him, with a serious look on his face. He does the thing with his eyes when he tries to give Niall a silent message, a message he needs him to understand. Niall knows him, senses it, so he sighs, and pulls Harry down next to him on the couch.  
  
As he wraps his arm around his shoulders, he says quite simply, "Harry, you're one of the best fucking people I know. You know I wouldn't let someone fuck around with you, not ever again. Zayn is good. He was always a decent person, but he had a lot of fucked up shit to deal with, and he has. And so have you. So if you want to do this, do this. Just do it right this time, okay?"  
  
Harry exhales. He breathes in and out.  
  
"I think I want to do this," he says, closing his eyes.  
  
Harry Styles wants to do this with Zayn Malik again. Because he's been in love with him since the moment they locked eyes. And that has to matter, regardless of the time they spent a part, the shit they went through.  
  
So he vows to go and hopes Zayn wants to do this too.  
  
"Niall, I feel like I haven't told you in the last hour, so here goes: you're my best friend."  
  
"You're such a sap. Such a twat. Come here," he says, tugging Harry under his arm tighter.

  
  
***

  
It's like Zayn is the king and he's attending a royal ball, just for him. He walks around the ballroom of the hotel downtown, filled to the brim with studio executives, costars, producers, crew guys. He weaves through all of them, with a bottle of water in his hand, in his crisp suit, and it's like the parting of the Red Sea, as he says hello to everyone. Zayn has always attracted a certain amount of attention, because his face is absolutely ridiculous, but this is a whole new level. Harry's never seen him like this before. People stare at him and he acts like it's nothing, they take pictures of him as he passes. He's nice and gracious to every person who approaches him, takes pictures with them, shakes hands of so many people, Harry starts to lose count.  
  
He doesn't even glance at a bottle of alcohol, doesn't look uncomfortable that everyone else is slowly getting inebriated for the party. He tells stories, he invites people into his conversations, he laughs the loudest of everyone there.  
  
Zayn introduces Harry to a few of his costars, and they're all actors Harry recognizes. They all greet him like an old friend. He introduces him to his producers, a few of the writers, the director of the majority of the episodes. Sometimes when he gets especially excited to shove Harry in someone's face, when he explains what Harry does, and how he writes for people who need it, he puts his hand on the small of Harry's back, and it's like he's burning straight through his jacket and his shirt, because Harry's sure he can feel it directly on his skin.  
  
When the lights cut out and they begin to play the pilot, everyone applauds. As they sit at their table as the music begins, Zayn excitedly puts his arm on the back of Harry's chair and leans in to whisper, "I really think you'll like it, Haz. Really. I can't always say that about all the shows I've done, but this is so fucking good. They all worked so hard, you know?" he says, gesturing around.  
  
Harry smiles at him and turns to the screen.  
  
And Zayn was right, it is really fucking good. Harry knows through work that the execs at AMC are notoriously generous to their dramas, giving them the budgets they need, the room to grow, to build an audience. This show is going to do great, Harry can tell. He also knows, without a doubt, that before the run is over, Zayn Malik will be an award winning actor. He'll win the SAG, the Golden Globe, the Emmy, and every award that's been invented. Because he's fucking flawless in it.  
  
He plays Ryan, a drug addict, a guy who tries to clean himself up from his life on the streets. His family doesn't believe in him, and in the pilot, he sinks further into his drug use and as it nears the end, it looks like he won't make it out. Harry is on the edge of his seat and there are still fifteen minutes left.  
  
But just then, he feels it. He feels Zayn in his space, like old times. He smells his cologne.  
  
Zayn has leaned over fully, moved his arm even more fully around Harry's chair, his shoulders. Harry turns his head slightly to look at him. From this angle, from the way the light from the screen is hitting Zayn's face, Harry can see the tiny scar on his forehead from hitting it on their orange tree. And he almost cries.  
  
"Hey Haz?" he whispers.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm so glad you're here."  
  
"I'm glad too," he whispers, smiling.  
  
"No, really. All of this, none of it would feel as good if you weren't here," he says, looking down, quieter. "I've realized lately, that nothing good is ever really _that_ good, if you're not with me. I think I've known it for years, to be honest."  
  
Harry looks at Zayn, with his head tilted down, looking at the floor. So Harry reaches out and lightly tucks his finger under his chin, and tugs him up.  
  
"The second I left our building, the very fucking second I walked out that front gate, I knew it was the best decision and the worst decision I'll ever make. And I've missed you every day since."  
  
"I'm sorry for all of it. I'm sorry for not being honest with you, for never telling you how I felt. I'm sorry for ruining the wall."  
  
"I'm sorry too. I'm sorry," Harry chokes out.  
  
Zayn's eyes look a little more watery at this point, and Harry doesn't trust his voice anymore, sure it's too shaky with emotion.  
  
But luckily, and because Zayn knows him, _really, truly_ knows him, he leans in and kisses him first. He touches his lips to Harry's and it's like everything suddenly falls back into place. Harry realizes in that moment that his depression no longer owns him because something else does, something else always has. And that something is his overwhelming love and affection for Zayn Malik.  
  
He knows it's cheesy, but he's been doing it for so long now, he can't help it: if at that moment he had to give the day a number, it would be a ten, without a doubt.

***

  
They sneak off while there are still ten minutes left in the show, towards the bathrooms. It's not preferable, but he doesn't care. If he doesn't get his mouth on Zayn, somewhere, anywhere, in the next few seconds, he's truly afraid he'll combust.  
  
Just as he's about to head down the hallway towards the men's room, Zayn grabs his hand and pulls him into an empty conference room instead. He hurries to shut the door before anyone sees. Then it's like the gravity, or the magnetism, or whatever the fuck is between them takes over, and they're done for.  
  
Zayn pins Harry against the wall with his hips as he attacks his neck with his tongue. He doesn't bite, he doesn't hurt him, he just kisses and nudges him, licks a stripe up to his ear, and Harry feels like his brain is melting in his skull as Zayn licks at his earlobe.  
  
Zayn grabs at Harry's shirt, hurriedly untucks it from his pants and shoves his hands up to run them up and across Harry's chest, his ribs, his stomach, feeling, feeling, feeling.  
  
"Fuck Zayn, I've missed you. I've really missed you," he pants out as Zayn runs his thumbs over his nipples.  
  
"I've missed you so much, I can barely think straight," Zayn growls into his neck, voice rough.  
  
Harry feels himself rutting into Zayn's hip, feels his erection rubbing against his own, as his eyes roll back in his head. And it's perfect, he's so perfect, that he doesn't want to ruin it, but he can't not be honest, not anymore.  
  
"I want to say so many things to you, but I'm afraid you're going to be weird, or make me feel bad about it," he says in a rush, wincing, as Zayn stills his body and pulls away.  
  
"Harry, I want you to hear me right now. I want you to really listen, okay?"  
  
"Okay," he pants out.  
  
"I'm better now, and I can handle whatever you have to say. Because I'm not fucking around with you, not anymore, never again. So you can always, _always_ be honest with me and tell me what you're thinking. I'm not running."  
  
Harry looks at him, really looks at him, and settles his hands on his hips, lips an inch apart.  
  
"I love you, Zayn. I've been in love with you for so long, I don't even know what it feels like to not be in love with you. I'm so proud of you, for all you've done, and for getting sober and for being happy. But I want you to be happy with me. I don't want you to be happy with anyone else."

Harry can feel his chin wobbling and he's nervous all over again.

Zayn doesn't even hesitate to lean in, he doesn't give Harry a weird look, he doesn't look away or deflect. He grabs Harry and pulls him so their chests are together, their hips touch, their feet tangle.  
  
"I love you, Hazza. I never fucking deserved you, I never gave you anything, and I was terrible. But I love you so much. I knew I needed to be better for you, I needed you to see that I'm better. And I don't want to be happy with anyone else but you."  
  
"Really?" Harry breathes out, as a tear starts to fall.  
  
"Really. So let's stop fucking around, okay? We both got our shit together, we fixed what was wrong. We have to forgive each other for the stupid shit we did and said. This is it. This is it, Haz. I'm serious," he says, pulling away to look him in his eyes.  
  
"This is it."  
  
Harry seizes forward and kisses Zayn so hard, he's afraid their lips are going to be bruised after this and everyone will know.  
  
And if you must know, after they both finally shut the fuck up, Zayn reached down and took Harry's cock out of his pants while Harry undid Zayn's zipper. Zayn spit into his palm and worked them in his hand together, in a rhythm so good, Harry's toes curled. When they came, they came together, panting into each others' mouths, and it was like coming home.

  
  
***

  
Shannon had zero qualms about Harry wanting to move back to LA, to return to his job in the LA office, to lead a new team, to move into Zayn's house. In fact, she encouraged it.  
  
"Harry, here's a little trade secret for you, okay?" she says, leaning in during their last session in her office, shaking her blonde hair out of her eyes.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You don't spend two years talking about a person in therapy and then not end up with them, not if that person is also becoming the best person they can be, and not if they're also still in love with you too. You just don't. My colleagues may find that to be too simplistic, or will say it doesn't apply to everyone. And that may be true. But it does apply to you. I have faith in the two of you."  
  
"Really?" he smiles, rubbing his hands over his knees.  
  
"And if you start to drive each other crazy, you call me."

  
  
***

  
Harry moves back to Los Angeles and directly into Zayn's house in the hills. Zayn is shooting the day Harry arrives, but when he walks in, with his new key, he sees that Zayn cleared out half the closet space, half the drawers, half the space in the bathroom.  
  
They really _don't_ fuck around this time. They're honest with each other to a fault. Zayn tells Harry every secret he's ever had, Harry tells Zayn every fear he still has, and they work through them all together. Harry sometimes worries his face is going to freeze in a permanent grin, from all the smiling he does lately.

They learn each others' bodies all over again, the right way, with reverence and respect, appreciating every inch of skin they taste. And even when Harry asks Zayn to get a little rough with him, they still do it with smiles on their faces.  
  
Niall moves back to LA only two months after Harry, because, let's face it, Niall needs Harry just as much as Harry ever needed him. His girlfriend, the one he met at Starbucks, comes with him and they move in together. Harry's mom and Gemma come out to meet Zayn a few short weeks after he moved, and it's like every piece of his life starts fitting together like it's supposed to.  
  
Zayn's show premieres to record ratings. The buzz around his performance is exactly the buzz Harry knew he'd receive. Harry's LA team is just as amazing as his New York team, and he gets great feedback from readers.  
  
Zayn tells everyone and anyone, in any interview he does now, that he is officially off the market and completely in love. When he does Letterman again to promote the show, Dave asks if him and "the love of his life" are thinking about getting married anytime soon, and Zayn slyly says they're not _not_ thinking about getting married anytime soon. Harry, who came with him and watches from the greenroom, smiles.  
  
They also find out that apparently Harry has a little fan club online now, after people see him out with Zayn enough and then find out that he's a hot, sensitive writer. When Zayn slips into him while they take a shower that night, he whispers into Harry's ear that he's jealous, that he hopes he can satisfy him now that all those teen girls are throwing themselves at his feet. When Harry comes, it's with Zayn's smile against his throat.

  
  
***

  
They don't forget their past. Sometimes they reminisce about their inside jokes, sometimes Zayn calls Harry "Mary" and they laugh into each others' necks. They talk about their old orange tree and how they hardly ever ate them. Harry tells him that Jem absolutely flourished in the LA office's waiting room. For Halloween, no matter what costumes they wear, they put eyeliner on each other, for fun. They watch "Friends" almost every night before they go to bed.  
  
But they don't dwell on their past either. They acknowledge their old feelings and insecurities every once and a while, but it's almost like trying to remember having a really bad stomach flu: you know it was bad, you know it wrecked you physically, but it's a phantom pain because it doesn't actually hurt you now. It can't hurt you anymore.  
  
Zayn doesn't have another drink. Harry doesn't get depressed or stay in bed. Because they both fixed themselves, the right way, a part. Zayn still attends AA sometimes, and Harry still emails Shannon regularly.  
  
And now that they're together, they restructure, they rebuild.  
  
Nothing crashes and the world doesn't end.

 


	8. Epilogue

 

 

_…AND TWO YEARS AFTER THAT_

 

  
  
Zayn stands in front of the mirror in the hotel room and adjusts his tie. It's not sitting right. He moves it around, tries to adjust the knot, when his stylist Melissa calls at him from over by the hair and makeup chair.  
  
"Zayn, if you touch that tie one more time, I'm going to tie your hands behind your back with one of the spares I brought."  
  
Just then, Harry crowds up behind him, slides his hands under his shirt, and whispers, "Oh, I can get behind that idea. Want me to grab it?" into Zayn's ear, as he looks at his reflection.  
  
"Quit it, Haz," he says, swatting him away, as he continues to fix his damn tie.  
  
But Harry doesn't leave him be, he crowds into Zayn even closer. He continues to move his hands, lets his palms feel the muscle and skin of his abdomen, and kisses his neck.  
  
"Are you nervous, babe?"  
  
"No."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"No, I'm not nervous because I'm not going to win. You have to actually think you're going to win, prepare a speech, write it down, psych yourself up to speak in front of people, to get nervous. I'm not going to win, Harry."  
  
"Maybe," he singsongs into Zayn's ear. He promised he wouldn't outright say that he'd win, because it sounds bad, and it could jinx him, but he absolutely knows Zayn is going to win. And Harry loves being right.  
  
Zayn gives up with the tie and instead turns away from the mirror, letting Harry wrap his arms around him. He leans his forehead against his and breathes in a few steady breathes. Harry grabs his face and kisses him, only slipping his tongue in a for a second. He feels Zayn smile into it.  
  
Melissa calls out, "You two are the _worst_ ," and they laugh together.

  
  
***

  
It's as they sit at the table in the middle of the show when Harry sees Zayn's legs jumping all over the place, like he can't keep them settled and still. He knows this is one of the very few times Zayn wishes he could have a cocktail to calm himself. So Harry moves his chair closer and grabs his hands under the table.  
  
"Relax, you have to relax."  
  
"Am I sweating? I feel like I'm sweating. If the camera cuts over here and I'm sweating, I'm going to look like a fucking fool," Zayn says in a rush.  
  
"You're not sweating. Sit still, it'll help," Harry says. And then he leans in and whispers into his ear, as quiet as he can, so no one hears. "Hey babe, just so you know, when all this is over, whether you win or lose, I'm going to blow you in the car on the way home, okay? I'm going to get on my knees for you, but you'll have to be quiet so the driver doesn't hear, yeah?" And then he sits back and looks at Zayn sweetly, as if he just whispered him their grocery list, or something as equally appropriate to whisper in front of a table of his costars and bosses.  
  
You'd think as an actor Zayn would have a better poker face in this type of situation, but his goofy grin practically screams _Harry just whispered about a blowjob in my ear!_  
  
Harry smiles and sighs.  
  
"Relax, it's going to be fine. Your category is coming up soon."

  
  
***

  
"The nominees for Outstanding Performance by a Male Actor in a Drama Series are…"  
  
The cameras cut around to the various actors in the category, at their tables with their casts and producers. Zayn is the third name, the third cutaway, and he does a simple nod to the camera, and applauds like everyone else. Harry puts a steadying hand on his knee, to ground him.  
  
It cuts back up to the presenters, as they get ready to announce the winner. Harry knows he only has a moment so he leans over from where he's sat slightly behind and to the side of Zayn, and kisses him behind the ear. "Good luck, babe. I love you so much."  
  
Zayn grabs Harry's hand on his knee, squeezing hard, clinging for dear life.  
  
Harry holds his breath.  
  
"And the Actor goes to… Zayn Malik."  
  
It feels like time stops, because an entire room of people erupt in applause and every single one of them turns and looks at Zayn, sitting next to Harry, holding his hand as they stand. He turns and gives him a bewildered look. Harry hates to think it, but it reminds him of the bar, when Zayn got hit and reached for him in sheer panic.  
  
Harry grabs him in a hug and feels as if he'll never let go, he's so happy. Zayn hugs him back, but he's shaking. He's nervous.  
  
So Harry whispers, "Want me to swallow a penny? I can," as he steps back, smiling, running a thumb across Zayn's cheek.  
  
That shakes him, he laughs, snaps out of it. "No, I got it. I love you," Zayn says, as he finally pulls away to head towards the stage, tears in his eyes.  
  
Zayn walks to the podium, to thunderous applause and a standing ovation, lead mostly by Harry, who is sat at the same table with Zayn's entire cast and their producers, towards the front of the room. Harry knew this would happen, but he also can't believe it, as he furiously beats his hands together, practically bouncing up and down. He feels his face redden, as he tries to suppress his crying.  
  
Zayn takes the statue from Reese Witherspoon, as well as the envelope his name was read off of, and they say something to each other and laugh, though no one can hear them.  
  
It's about then that Harry feels the camera on him, on their table, as Zayn steps to the microphone. The clapping settles down, people go back to their seats, and wait for Zayn's voice to carry through the speakers.  
  
Zayn stands there in his classic black Armani suit, tie perfectly in place, looking at the statue in his hand, ring glinting from the lights, smiling hard, like he can't believe it either. He holds a fist to his mouth, trying to collect himself. Harry know it's his tell when he's trying not to cry.  
  
"Wow, this is… incredible. Thank you so much," he says, looking up and around the room, smiling. "I can honestly say I did not expect this, so bear with me. Um, first of all, it's an honor to win a SAG, because it's voted on by you, my fellow actors, my peers, my friends, so thank you for this. Thank you _so_ much. I especially love SAG because their insurance got me out of quite the sticky situation a few years ago, after I got into a fight with a window," he chuckles, as people join in.  
  
"It's been an honor to play Ryan for the two years that I have, and I always hoped to do him justice. I wanted his struggle with addiction to be harsh, and painful, and just a little unsettling. Because that's how addiction is. I've been sober for four years now," he says, as people politely applaud and whoop for him, "so this was always very important to me. Um, shit, they're telling me to wrap up already…" And the entire room laughs at the slip, the curse word Harry _knew_ was going to find its way into the speech. Harry throws his head back and laughs, as Zayn bristles at the microphone, embarrassed.  
  
Zayn rushes now, running out of time. "I have to thank AMC for their support, my entire cast and crew, our amazing writers and producers, my manager Kate, everyone at CAA, Melissa, Jack and Susan, my family, especially my parents who gave me my first loan to move to LA, my friends who have stuck by me all this time," and then he looks at the camera and says, "Thank you, Niall Horan." Harry laughs loudly again in surprise, knowing Niall must've forced him to do it.  
  
And then Harry can tell it's about to happen before it happens, because he knows Zayn like the back of his hand.  
  
Zayn turns his entire body towards their table, and looks Harry in the eye.  
  
"And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank my Harry," as he stares him down. "You are the love of my life, my soul mate, and no matter how much I brag about this award later, or point it out to every person who comes into our house and sees it on the mantle," as everyone chuckles in the audience again, "you are without a doubt the best thing I ever won."  
  
Harry feels such an overwhelming surge of affection at that moment, a tear threatens to escape. But he doesn't cry, he just kisses his fingers and sends it up to Zayn on stage.  
  
Zayn turns back to the front, to the main cameras, bows slightly, and finishes with a simple, "Thank you very, very much."  
  
The music plays as he exits the stage with Reese and a few others, the audience applauds, and then everyone settles back into their seats as the cameras roll away.  
  
Harry looks around at Zayn's cast, the producers, and their spouses at the table, and he can't help but smile from ear to ear, as they all tell him how lovely it was, how exciting it is for their friend and colleague to be a big winner. They keep hugging, laughing, toasting each other. But Harry is distracted.  
  
Harry can't wait to find Zayn, so he gets up to go look.

  
  
***

  
Harry doesn't have to search for long, as a few people have already come to look for him, because he is wanted in the pressroom. He sees Zayn's manager on the way in, and they have a quick, excited hug. Then he walks in and sees Zayn on the small press stage, holding his massive and heavy Actor, smiling for the group of photographers, answering a few questions about being a winner. A reporter spots Harry and immediately his own name is called out, people shouting at him to join Zayn, to take a few photos together.  
  
Their eyes meet and Zayn laughs, shrugs his shoulders. He must've expected this, after giving such a grand and heartfelt speech. So Harry makes his way to him, noting that with every step, another flash goes off. He gets to Zayn's side, gets in his space like old times, and kisses his cheek, whispers "I love you and I am so proud of you" in his ear, as the room erupts in more yelling for them to pose.  
  
They stand side by side, Zayn clutching his award, Harry grinning from ear to ear, as he runs his hand along Zayn's lower back.  
  
Harry never met a Kodak moment he didn't want to seize perfectly, so Harry does what Harry does best and smiles, as he wraps himself around Zayn's left side to hold his arms around his torso, links his hands together on his right hip so that his wedding ring is facing outward, and rests his forehead against Zayn's cheek, eyes closed. Zayn continues posing, and then slightly leans his head against Harry's, sighing, knowing Harry like the back of his hand too.  
  
That photo runs in PEOPLE, it's on "Good Morning America" the next morning, and is all over the internet in about ten minutes' time. The photo, along with Zayn Malik's beautiful speech to his husband, are all anyone can talk about for the next three days.  
  
(Harry gets a massive black and white print of that photo and hangs it on their blue wall afterwards, in the sitting room of the new house, next to the photo of the typewriter and the smaller frames of quotes and pictures and inspiration. Zayn wins the SAG again the next year, and the Emmy, and the Golden Globe, and they all eventually sit on the mantle near that photo, next to Harry's writing awards and the plaque he got at the GLAAD honors last year. It all fits together quite nicely, very picturesque, if Harry does say so himself.)

  
  
***

  
In the limo that night, following the after party and the _after_ after party, after calling their moms and yelling out the window a little bit for fun, Harry sucks Zayn off right there in the back seat. Zayn trembles in his Prada shoes as Harry unravels him like only he knows how, like he's done almost every day since they found each other again in New York.  
  
It's not until Zayn comes, with a gasp and a hand in Harry's hair, that Harry sits back, takes a breath, when they both lock eyes and realize it at the same time: they're in the back of a limo on their way to their house in the hills, Zayn holding a bottle of absurdly expensive water, Harry with come on his lip, on a night where Zayn's just won a huge acting award, and this is their fucking life.  
  
They laugh and laugh, as they cling to each other, drinking their stupid water, getting their suits wet. But they don't care. They kiss and play and laugh in that limo, like they're teenagers.  
  
They laugh the rest of the way home.

  
  
***

  
The next morning, Harry wakes up first, because of course he does. Zayn had a big night, he's still exhausted. He rolls over and kisses the back of Zayn's head, smells his hair, runs his hands down his bare back ever so gently. Zayn The Sloth shifts a little, pushes back into him, as if he's saying _keep doing that_ , not _leave me alone, Harry_ , and Harry doesn't know if it will ever stop making him smile, the fact that even Zayn's unconscious form wants him closer, seeks out his warmth.  
  
Once he's allowed himself to curl around Zayn for a few more minutes, he gets up and makes his way downstairs to the kitchen. He starts the coffee and fills the watering can, just like every other morning.  
  
He walks out onto the sun porch overlooking the greater Los Angeles metro and stretches. Then he says, "Hello, hello boys, what is going on this morning? How are we doing? Bet you need this, huh. What a beautiful day, right?" as he walks around and waters each plant, runs his fingers through their leaves.

He texts Niall that he should come by that afternoon, give his poor wife a break for a while, and bring baby Shelby over to play, because Harry misses that fat little face terribly. She's growing up too fast and it's unsettling because it means they're all getting old. He also remembers the present he bought for her, a little stuffed giraffe he just had to buy. Then he texts his mom good morning, followed by Gemma, followed by Trisha and the girls.  
  
He walks out to their orange trees in the backyard and picks a few, knowing Zayn will want at least one for breakfast.  
  
It's not until Harry is sat at the kitchen table, with the windows all open, birds singing, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a good book in the other, that it occurs to him, yet again.  
  
He could do this, this entire routine before Zayn wakes up, every single goddamn morning of his life and feel quite content. Sure, the routine might change slightly once they get the dog they've been talking about for a while, or once they bring home the baby they've been talking about for even longer, but it'll still be his routine. He'll always be content with it.  
  
So Harry drinks his coffee and reads his book, while he waits for Zayn to wake up.  
  
And for a while, for a long while, for years and years, that's that.

 

  
  
THE END

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around to read about these two idiots finally getting it together.
> 
> :)
> 
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> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/this_onegoes/)  
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